


Floribus Dolores: The Flowers of Regret

by decoris



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, At least I tried to be, Cold Shoulder! Germany, Constantly revising, Historical, M/M, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Philosophical! Italy, Probably didn't work out so well, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Temporarily Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:32:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7359553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decoris/pseuds/decoris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Germany doesn't appear to the Earth Summit in 1992, the countries dismiss it. He doesn't appear for the next one, and they send him an annoyed phone call. The following meeting, they start to worry. The fourth time, the countries pound on his door, only to receive a hollow echo. The fifth time, Prussia arrives and dumps a leather-bound book at the table.</p><p>One journal. Twenty-five entries. Some written with blood and many with tear stains soaked into the brittle paper. With the demand to find Germany high, and the clock running out of time, will they ever find him?</p><p>*GOING THROUGH MUCH NEEDED REVISION!*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All That Glitters Is Not Gold

The year was 1992.

The nations had held an Earth Summit on Environment and Development in the June of that summer. The meeting itself had only lasted two weeks, but for a meeting that didn't have Germany, it went surprisingly well. The people of Rio De Janeiro had been kind and hospitable, welcoming the foreign, accented strangers with sanguineness and geniality. The nations didn't take this act of kindness for granted, the pleasantry soothing their slight disquietude.

Nations and representatives communicated rather than shouted, and it seemed though as if they got just a  _little_  bit closer to achieving their goals. And of course, the after party had been amazing as well with plenty of embarrassing stories to be told.

Yes, the nations were exhausted from the excitement that Brazil brought. That is why a month later, they would much rather be in front of a fan, in a pool, on the beach — anywhere else other than boarding a plane to New York City for another dull meeting. Even if the average temperature only reached a peak of 73 degrees Fahrenheit in the day, for many of the Northern Europeans, this weather was still much too hot. With no errant winds to cool them down, hot, thick asphalt soaked in every ray of sunshine and melted it back into their black suits and ties. Body heat, they knew, could be the difference between comfortable and egregious.

So when they landed, the sun felt sweltering through their black slacks and white, stiff collars. The heat followed them like a warm breath, and while some basked in its gift, many others cursed at it and hoped that at least traveling to New York again would be worth it.

Yes, that July sixteenth was the most average day to have a meeting.

Or so they thought it would have been.

* * *

"I swear if I hear  _My_ _Achey_ _Breaky_ _Heart_  one more bleeding time, this meeting will have one less nation on the roster," England griped with clenched teeth, getting out of the taxi with France. The taxi drove away to the oh so wonderful sound of morning, New York City traffic.

"You seem to be rather disturbed today, black sheep. Or is that you're sexually disturbed as always?" France asked with amusement.

"What the —! Get your disgusting hands off of me and let me walk through this door already! Why do I even bother with your beastly presence," England said pushing the double doors open to the elegant U.N. headquarters.

He gave the blonde receptionist a small, awkward smile as they went through the same routine of standard safety procedures. It wasn't much, just flashing the woman some ID and confirming the appointment date was set to that date specifically. There was no way anyone could impersonate Mr. Bonnefoy, she once confessed. No one could be as shamefully flamboyant and French as him, she recounted when giving them back their plastic IDs with a teasing grin. As for Mr. Kirkland, she pondered out loud with a finger to her lip, no one could beat his... _distinguishable_  features. His eyes were so patently green, she rushed with a nervous laugh and rapid gesticulation to proceed down the hallway.

This time, however, she smiled at them and wished them luck for their meeting. She motioned them to proceed as she always did. The blonde nations walked down the long hallway, their polished, black shoes making click noises as their heels hit the tile floor. France sashayed his hair a bit. "You say you cannot stand me, but yet you still travel with me. Admit it, you cannot resist this."

England just gave him a look.

"No one else can put up with you for so long either. I'm the one who is being selfless! Like last week when we were —"

"Will you just shut your wretched mouth already!" England huffed, his ears tinted red with embarrassment. France laughed and opened the door for England to walk in. England muttered a thank you and saw that not many countries were there yet.

France sat down next to England, both of them still quarreling over small things. Why they were fighting about whose Tamagachi was better fed was a question no one really bothered to ask them.

"Yo dudes, you guys fighting again? You two can never get along, haha!" America said loudly strutting in through the doors with a horrible, neon pink cap on his head. It was placed on backward, the bill facing away from his forehead to protect him from the sun that wasn't even there.

Many of the nations blinked in surprise but with no real shock. He wasn't wearing nice dress shoes like the rest of them either. Oh no. He was wearing fluorescent white Nike sneakers that squeaked with every step he took and a ridiculously patterned collared shirt that looked like it belonged on a hotel carpet rather than on a body. His slacks were still black at least.

England was just glad the shoes had laces this time. He  _was not_  going through the hell of America and velcro again.

His outfit was a horrendous mix of the current street fashion and the half-assed effort to look presentable to the world. England sighed heavily, wearily, and had to pinch his nose from exploding on the young man. The amount of stupid in America never really stopped amazing him, not even after two hundred years.

France looked like as if he had just been struck with a heart attack. He slumped in his chair, head cocking back and body loosening in shock and England had to smack him to see if he was still alive. France fell to the floor from the imbalance his turned face caused, his legs and arms crumbling in a way that only an unconscious man could withstand. England blinked slowly and uncaringly as his neighbor sprawled on the floor.

"Will you look at that. You killed France," he said poking him with his foot to make sure.

Everyone else just ignored America's odd sense of style and went back to bugging their fellow neighbors. America slid next to England, whom at the moment was debating on whether to perform CPR or to just let him stay there and wake up with a horrible crick in his neck. America set his things down on the table and loosened his black tie a bit. It was in that moment England remembered something and set to turn France over and revive him.

"Yo England, is Germany ditching out on another meeting? That guy's a real pain in the ass, but dealing with Italy's rambling is worse," America asked while looking down to see what England was doing.

"You bearded fuck, you still owe me money, you bleeding, no good — ! Oh?" England stopped pumping and looked around. "I don't know America. He wasn't here when we arrived. That wasn't much before you, I'm afraid." England then gave up on the Frenchman, letting him stay on the floor as he kneeled back up.

America huffed. "So not cool man. He's always telling us not to miss any of the meetings too! 'Tardiness is not acceptable.' 'Making it to the meetings is not an option, but mandatory.'," America mimicked in his horrible impersonation of Germany's voice.

"It is strange though, America. Germany isn't one to miss out on a such an important event. You know how he is..." England said a tad bit worried that Germany was going to miss yet another meeting. It left an uneasy feeling in his stomach, and he could tell that it did for America as well.

"Who knows! Maybe he suddenly snapped and went mofo, or I don't know. Got laid!" America said with a false laugh.

"Will you please stop talking like that. I highly doubt Germany just went and bonked someone...that's just not like him."

"Bonked? What the hell does that mean? See, I'm not the one talkin' funny. You're using  _Iggy English_ again," America said while waving excitedly to Japan.

"It means to have a good shag."

"What?"

"A bang?"

"Like the hair? It's bangs, dude."

"To have sex! To bloody have sex!" England finally said to America frustrated.

"Did someone say sex?" France asked, his heart  _conveniently_  pumping blood right after England had shouted.

"So,  _now_  you wake up."

"Anything for you," France cooed sweetly, clutching his head and sitting up from the floor. He stumbled back into his seat next to England and avoided looking at America in fear that he would collapse again. He grabbed the glass of water in front of his name tag to drink and calm down.

"Oh! You should have just said that, jeez. But yeah, it is odd. This is what, the fifth time? I know that Austria and Switzerland have already tried barging into his house, but he wasn't there either. Germany can't quit on us, man. He's important," America said eyeing the empty chair next to the fidgety Italy.

"Poor lad, he must really miss Germany," England remarked when he saw America's line of vision.

America turned to him. "Who? Italy?"

England nodded. "It's written all over his face. Can't you see? Though I will admit that something has been fishy around them for a while now. Odd considering how much they fancy each other."

America looked at Italy talking rapidly with his twin. Romano looked less than pleased as usual, but he seemed to listen to Italy's useless ramble with a little bit less hate than others. Even with all of Italy's wild wrist motions and happy exclamations, he did not seem truly happy. His eyes, flickering to the wooden door hoping for something, anything, to emerge and placate the growing restlessness within his body that he could not display, held a hidden longing. America sensed that Italy was hiding how despondent he was for the sake of others, and America could only send him sympathy as he knew that feeling all too well.

"Italy looks happy. They aren't always together, ya know," America said, choosing to ignore the growing heaviness of the topic.

"Italy may look like he's full of beans, but take a closer look and you'll see how his eyes dart to his left and how his hands twitch after talking about pasta," England said leaning forward in his seat just a bit so his elbows rested on the table.

"Full of beans? You gotta cool your jets with that funny talk, bro," America said snickering. America didn't think Italy was talking about lies, but then again, Italy did have a tendency to exaggerate things just a  _tad._

"I keep forgetting you don't use that kind of language here. Sorry, I'll try to not make it so blatant."

America grew concerned. "You only get like that when you're worried about something. You're usually really good at hiding your weird Britishy terms. Something up?"

England sighed. "No, no, everything is just going splendidly. This bloody meeting mess has gotten my Parliament in a horrible disarray, they threw a tantrum when I left like little children. I swear I should sack all of them, those bumbling pillocks. They are now badgering me to find Germany, and how am I supposed to know where he is? I know less than they know, those little..."

America blinked and had to hold his mouth from laughing out loud. He couldn't hold it in and he burst. His loud laughter did not attract as much attention as one would think as America practically laughed at everything.

"Oh my god. Oh my god! Haha! That is the most British thing I have ever heard! What the hell did you even just say?" America said wiping a tear from under his glasses. England just groaned and did not flinch when he felt France caress his thigh from under the table as a means of comfort.

"That's not the point. My point is if we don't figure out what happened to Germany soon, my government, and everyone else's, will get extremely pissed off, and I don't feel like dealing with them more than I have to," England said, trying to avoid the instinctive use of his country's slang.

"I know you're rubbing my leg France! Fucking Christ, do you have no shame?" he asked, whacking France behind the head. He had turned his head to speak with Belgium, and he winced when he felt the smack against his crown.

"Hmm, true. Well, it looks like all the countries are almost here. We're just waiting for —?"

"Hungary. Asides from Germany, Hungary has yet to appear."

"Oh yeah. That's weird, though, she usually comes with Austria," America said doing another headcount.

"America, will you take off that hat already. It looks bloody ridiculous," England said eyeing the neon pink cap warily.

America gasped. "No way! Will Smith gave this to me, and I gotta look fresh! Hah! Get it? Fresh Prince of —"

"Yes, I get it America."

"No need to be such a biotch. Even if this meeting is a buzz kill, I have to present with style. You wouldn't get it. Your sweater vest is probably being dry cleaned, pfft," America said snickering.

"America, you think wearing a rug is fashionable. I'm not going to listen to  _you_  about fashion."

America waved his hand dismissively at him. "Yeah, yeah, whatever."

England sighed and muttered. "Why do I even bother."

"'Cuz I know you totally have a crush on me, dude. It's okay, I would date me too, I mean I am all that and a bag of chips," America said cheekily.

England vehemently denied that. America kept bantering with England, neither of them noticing that Italy watched with sharp eyes from afar.

Italy could tell just by England's body language that England was enjoying his time with America immensely. England's eyes showed a plethora of emotions when talking to America, and he seemed to never stop paying attention to him. Even when he was annoyed, he seemed to have a fond, aggravated sigh, or when he was pensive, his eyes would furtively flicker to his to see what he opinionated.

England loved America. Italy wasn't sure to what extent America felt about England, but America wasn't pushing away those affections. If anything he was just letting himself be basked in it, taking for granted England's unwavering, sure attention. To America, England's attention was a given to him.

_Such a spoiled country he is..._

Italy sighed as he placed his palm on his right cheek. Spain had clung onto Romano not too long ago and now they were doing their weird form of flirting far away from him. Yet another country that couldn't appreciate the persistent attention.

Italy looked to his left and saw Germany's seat once again empty. The first time this happened, he had full-blown panicked and cried. He cried and cried, but his tears did not bring Germany back, so he just sniffed and tried to think positively.

The second time, he couldn't ignore how his heart dropped and how his curl drooped sadly. Without Germany there, who would listen to him? Who would be there to sigh and tie his shoelaces that he purposely didn't knot up? Who was he supposed to hug and feel their body tense, only for them to relax with red cheeks?

He called, wrote, and did everything he could to contact Germany and think positively.

It had worked for a couple weeks, and he really thought that by the third meeting, he would be there to apologize in his overly formal and genteel way. Italy thought he would get to hear Germany mutter about "Italians and their damn pasta", but still join him for lunch when he took his larger, paler hand in his thinner, tanned one.

When he wasn't there for the third time, he really thought Germany had died, and it took the nations several hours to calm him down. Germany's bowl of pasta had gotten very cold...

By the fourth meeting, Italy had started to become a little less shocked at the idea of a frowning blond not by his side. His crisp suit and gelled hair were becoming a fading memory he could not swallow down. The others called him clingy and over-emotional, but if he didn't touch or hear Germany, he'll vanish forever right through his nimble fingers just like smoke.

He'll fade into his memory, blurred to a mere feeling with no face.

He didn't want that — oh no. He  _knew_  that this had to be the meeting he had to come. No one was sick for that long, especially not Germany who was a workaholic and perfectionist. Germany would be too embarrassed and guilty to miss over fifty-five days of work.

Germany hasn't talked to Italy in one hundred and twenty-four days, five hours, and twenty seconds.

Not that he's counting or anything.

"I'M SO SORRY FOR BEING LATE, BUT I CAUGHT TWO HOT GUYS MAKING OUT AND I COULDN'T LOOK AWAY FROM IT BECAUSE THAT SHIT WAS HOT," Hungary shouted, her hair having twigs and leaves in it.

Everyone gaped at her and winced at her loud voice.

"That's nice, just sit down Hungary," Austria said uncomfortable, yet used to the notion of Hungary going on random hunting trips of "boy's love."

"Sorry, sorry," she apologized taking her seat next to Austria. She gasped.

"Where's Germany? Is he not here again?" She immediately looked over to Italy whose curl was drooped down to pathetic levels. His mouth was quivering, but his eyes were still shut like normal. She heard sad little  _ve_  from him, and she wished she could go to him and hug him just like she had done long ago.

America stood up from his chair abruptly, England quickly swiping the cap away as he stood up. America had his right hand clenched into a fist and his left palm flat on the table sturdily, shaking the long slab of metal.

"Alright! Another world meeting has commenced! First of all, welcome to the  _lovely_  Big Apple, New York City baby! It's the home of the hamburger! And the American mafia, but anyhow," America ignored Romano's heated glare at the word mafia, "hamburgers. That's German. And you know what's German and not in the great ol' US of A? Germany. The main dude. Anyone know where that guy went?"

This brought worried chatter to the table.

_All we can do is talk, talk, talk, talk and never do anything. It's annoying me._

"Wasn't he just in Switzerland?" Mexico piped up.

Everyone looked to Switzerland.

"That was four months ago. I haven't heard from him either since then," Switzerland said neutrally. Liechtenstein nodded to make this statement valid.

"Well, that's a clue at least. Four months ago, he went to Switzerland..." America said, question marks floating around his head.

"He came to me three months ago to talk about the Earth Summit," Brazil said shyly. She barely ever had her voice heard, and she was glad to have something to contribute to with the leading powers of North America and Europe.

America blinked. "Who are you? Are you even a country?"

France gasped and rushed to hold Brazil. Brazil fidgeted uncomfortably. "How dare you forget about the beautiful Brazil? She's the one with the oh so lovely bottom~"

"France, focus! This isn't the time for that," England barked with his eyebrows twitching. "Now, Brazil, what did you discuss with Germany, and did he tell you what he was going to do next?" England asked kinder to the dark woman.

Brazil peeled off France's hands and straightened in her seat. She spoke with a clearer voice. "No, he did not. He came to me to talk about the preparations for the Earth Summit."

Her voice held confusion now, "It is odd, though. He seemed so worried and meticulous about everything going smoothly. He was concerned if it was imposing on my resources a lot, or if things would be ready on time, and he was generally worried about small things that I can't remember now, but he wasn't even there when it happened. This was such a big event and he just left," she made a gesture with her hands, "just, poof. Gone."

Many agreed and wondered what could have made Germany just leave like that.

"Alright, so we know he went to Swiss cheese over here, then to Brazil, but where to next?" America said tapping his chin.

Switzerland seethed and Liechtenstein had to remind him that guns aren't allowed in the meeting room.

Nobody else spoke up and so America tried, "You can't tell me that Germany didn't at least call one of you guys in these past three or four months."

"He did call me to ask something important," Austria stated after a pregnant pause.

America looked at him excitedly, his ridiculous shoes squeaking a bit from when he turned.

Austria nodded and said to the mirage of faces, "He called me to ask about something important, but hung up immediately after I had said yes. Quite rude, but disturbing. Something was troubling him deeply, it had seemed." Austria looked a little troubled as well and Hungary squeezed his hand in assurance. Austria's cheeks tinted a bit pink but wrapped his hand a little tighter around her thin fingers.

America made a humming noise and looked to England. "What do you think England?"

England bit his lip. "I don't know. All this behavior indicates that he was erratic about something. I have a feeling it wasn't about the Earth Summit either. Either someone in this room is choosing not to share,  _choosing to sacrifice valuable information for the well being of this organization_ ,  _choosing to endanger a fellow nation,_ or, Germany was upset about something else. But since I know  _no one_ in this room would do that, I can't really say," England stated coolly.

Some fidgeted in their plastic chairs not liking the glint in England's green, piercing eyes.

America completely ignored the threat and focused on the data he had just been told. Snapping his fingers, he pointed over to Italy. "Italy! You're always around Germany so you must know where he is!" England smacked his palm against his forehead.

"If I knew I would tell you. I haven't seen Germany either lately...It's been very lonely without Germany...he hates me! He hates me! I just know it!" Italy said, quick to sob into his palms. These weren't comical tears, tears that would leak out of his eyes from small things, but fat, thick droplets of water running down his reddening cheeks.

Romano immediately took defense. "Woah, woah. Look here you damn highlighter head bastard, you know how much of a little bitch my Fratello is, so can you not make him cry? He already cries enough without you reminding him that mayo on a stick is gone, okay? And Italy stop with the waterworks already!" Romano said hugging his younger brother by the side. Italy just clung to the side of Romano's nice suit (a suit he knew he would get a massive lecture about ruining later) and sniffed pitifully.

"Well, it seems the Mario brothers don't know shi —"

"I told you to stop fucking calling us that, you damn clogged artery!"

"I will once you stop calling me type two diabetes with legs."

"No way, you fucking chee —"

"This is getting us nowhere! Stop arguing and shut up!" Mexico said glaring at America with burning intensity.

"Romano, stop being a little bitch and suck it up. Do I have to sing you a lullaby to calm you down like when we were living under that  _puta_ _?_ And America, you're getting us nowhere, and you're the host of this meeting.  _Pinches_ _jotos_ _no_ _puedan_ _hacer_ _nada_ ," Mexico hissed, her brown hair floating up a bit.

Romano shook fearfully with his brother clinging to him just as scared. He nodded quickly, while America just stuck out his tongue childishly at his southern neighbor.

Italy let go from Romano and straightened up, saying he was ok now and that he was fine.

"The last time I saw Germany was four months ago too. He was very stressed, so I made him some good pasta! It was delicious, but he didn't eat it. He said he wasn't in the mood...he always eats my pasta," Italy paused. The whole room was silent as they heard Italy's voice try to steady.

"He kept on looking out the window. It was like he was looking for something, or remembering something bad. I don't like it when he remembers because it always leads back to..."

The heavy stillness didn't sit well with Italy. He continued to talk to fill in the eerily attentive countries.

"He sighed a lot and spent a lot of time in his library. He didn't like to be in the same room with me for very long either. It was like whatever I said — whatever I said, upset him. I up-upset him a lot it seems. But when don't I annoy him, right?" He asked the muted room with a watery smile.

"Germany and I went to walk his dogs. We stumbled upon an old training field, and Germany looked sick, so I asked him if he needed to go to a clinic, but he harshly said no. I didn't know what I did wrong, I-I was just trying to help, but it seemed to make Germany more distant. We-we didn't talk for the rest of the way back. He fed his dogs and said he was going to bed early. He said that he had important things to do the next day, so I let him sleep. He had looked at me in the eye and said to not to go to bed with him. It was scary!" Italy said, his curl spazzing out a bit.

Italy swallowed, his parched throat needing water. He looked at his empty glass of water by his doodled name tag with regret.

"I guess, I guess it's been like this for a while. I don't know why, but one day Germany stopped being so nice to me. He's still nice! Just not as nice as before. I don't know how to explain it, but he felt — feels more distant. I don't know what I did on that —"

"Hold on a second, when was this 'one day'?" France asked seriously.

Italy looked deep in thought. "Maybe...maybe the general assembly in 1990? The one two years ago? Or was it three..."

"Woah, for two years? How did you not notice that he was, like —" Poland was cut off by Italy's eerily blank voice.

"No. No, it wasn't two years ago. It's been like this since 1945."

"That would have been forty-five years ago..." Japan said, trying breaking the tense atmosphere.

Italy looked down. "I know."

"Okay, so Germany hasn't been total homo for you in forty-five years. That is bad news, shit," America said now furrowing his brows in worry.

"Homo? Homo as in homosexual?" Italy asked with his eyes wide open. America felt his nerves jump at how deep amber Italy's eyes were, and how aged they looked. They just seemed to have seen so many things. It was intimidating, those clear, sharp eyes on you.

"Yeah, you know gay?" America said trying to see what the big deal was, wondering if he had offended Italy somehow.

"Homosexual. Gay, gay, gay. No. I'm going crazy," Italy said, his eyes drooping down shut again, his face once again forming into the natural goofy expression.

"As much fun as it is to talk about how obvious that Germany is into kinky shit and likes cock, can we actually move onto where the cock sucker is? No one has really said anything useful, and my ass has been sitting in this uncomfortable chair for thirty minutes too long," Romano griped, the one to voice everyone else's thoughts.

"You won't find him."

Everyone turned around to the sharp voice.

"Prussia? What are you doing here?" Hungary was the first to speak from the shock of seeing Prussia so melancholic.

Prussia didn't answer. He walked toward the table and placed an old leather-bound book. The brown binding was chipped and frayed, the spine disconnecting with the yellow pages a bit, leaving a noticeable gap. The cover was bending upwards jaggedly as if someone had been holding onto it for dear life. There were many pieces of dried crusts of blood scattered on the cover and binding. There seemed to be a stain, a stain that the owner clearly had tried to get rid of in useless effort, of a thick blood trail. It wasn't just blots or stains of red like the other dried drops, but a vivid gushing trail of brown from three-quarters of the cover, to the uneven pages on the side, dipping down again to the back cover.

It was in horrible condition, yet the title had a clear engraving of  _Tagebuch_ _._ Whoever owned this journal made sure the cursive letters were still legible.

"Whose is that?" America asked, not liking the look of the antique book. It gave him eerie vibes, and he couldn't help but think that the book will cause more questions than answers.

Prussia looked at all of them, one by one — to Spain's faked cluelessness, to Russia's curiosity, to Hungary's pleading eyes, to France's guilty gaze, and to Italy's shaking body. He stuck his hands in his pants and spoke to them with a rasp in his voice.

"It's Germany's. That kid...he kept a journal. It's his only journal he's ever had," his chest rattled from the cigarette he just had. He hasn't had a scolding little brother to crush the cigar from his hand and make him chew dull gum in months. It seemed that smoking brought him closer to Germany.

"Prussia have you been smoking again?" Hungary asked with a frown.

He waved her off. "Maybe, maybe not. It doesn't matter."

"What are we supposed to do with this? This seems rather personal..." England said suspiciously and uncomfortable at the prospect of reading directly into Germany's thoughts. Germany deserved his privacy.

Prussia snorted, then coughed a wheezy cough. Smoking since the 30s can do things to your lungs even for a nation —  _ex-nation —_ like him. "You're going to read it. You're going to read it and bring my little brother back."

He looked back up and stared directly into Italy's eyes.

"Because I know you will."

Prussia walked back out of the room before complete chaos could ensue.

The nations just stared at the book as if it were an illegal alien. (Well at least America was looking at it like that). The book just sat at the table, the pungent scent of smoke surrounding the book like a bad perfume. The book was doing nothing, it was saying nothing, yet the nations stared at it, to each other, back to the book, to each other, and back to the book in a complete lack of knowledge of what to do. It was as if they expected the inanimate object to disappear just as quickly, just as spontaneously, as it had appeared.

The room was filled with heavy silence again, this time, a confused and turbulent silence. No one knew how to proceed, why Prussia seemed so calm and sad, or why Prussia had entrusted this private piece of property to the world. It was nerve-wracking. The answers, the possibilities, in those musty pages. How much history did this one book have?

"I think it's only fair that Italy has this," France finally said after getting tired of the fidgets and quick eye movement. It was just a book and they would find Germany with it, so he didn't understand why everyone was being so hesitant and nervous to open it. Even America looked apprehensive about the small antique journal. He felt a dark sense of foreboding as soon as he looked around once more. He couldn't shake off this strange feeling...

"M-Me? I can't take this!" Italy quickly denied, waving his white flag around.

"You're the only one who really deserves it, lad. It pains me to say this, but France is right. It's only fair," He scraped his chair back, the wood making a horrible scraping noise against the cold floor as it was pushed. The noise echoed harshly throughout the room. He went around the edge of the table, where the table faced the entrance and picked up the book daintily. The book felt heavy, and he felt a shiver go down his spine when he saw the foreign spelling.

_This could be possibly the words of a dead man._

India and Nepal looked at the book uninterested as Britain, India's used to be big brother now, made way to retrieve the book from their side, They would have tried to care more, but why should they meddle in Europe's problems? Nothing good ever came out of it.

Britain walked over to Italy and placed the book directly in his trembling hands. Italy's eyes were once again open. He was staring directly at England with a look of terrible fear, his eyes reflecting the same sadness in the others green ones.

"It's time to read the first entry, no?"

* * *

**Full of beans —** **_British slang meaning hyper, bursting with energy_ **

**Sack —** **_British slang to fire someone from work_ **

**Pillocks** **—** **_British slang for_   _a person_** ** _who is an idiot or has done something stupid_ **

**All That and a Bag of Chips —** **_"I'm the best and then some."_ **

**_Pinches_ ****jotos** **no** **pueden** **hacer** **nada —** _**Spanish for Fucking fagots can't do anything."** _

**Puta** **— _Spanish_** ** _for slut_ **  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that probably no real English person speaks like that, but as stated before, when England gets really stressed out, I feel like he would pull out all this weird slang that he has at his home. This is the only chapter that he really goes off like that, so do not worry English readers, you won't have to read that cringy attempt again.
> 
> 90s American slang is still pretty normal in today's terms so a lot of it wasn't even noticeable. It's in there, though.
> 
> ALSO: I will put this in the next chapter once we start to get reading the journal, but none of the entries will be in German. I'm not German, I don't speak any German and probably never will. If somehow Google Translate failed me with the simplest of tasks like translating journal, then please just drop kick me in the head.
> 
> That is all. Thanks for reading and see you in the next chapter!


	2. Childish Innocence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for those who have left kudos, bookmarks, and comments! Gah, this is so exciting! Just seeing that makes me very happy, so I decided to get my lazy ass to work to write this chapter for you guys :D
> 
> Human names for those who don't have them memorized just yet:
> 
> England — Arthur
> 
> America — Alfred
> 
> N. Italy/Veneziano — Feliciano
> 
> Romano — Lovino
> 
> Germany — Ludwig
> 
> Prussia — Gilbert

  **"Hetalia"** — German being translated to the Universal language

* * *

Italy looked down at the book once again. He was trying to ignore how the bound journal was feeling progressively heavier and how the room was getting quieter — if that was even possible. Is there a sound quieter than silence?

Italy looked back to England because England always had the answers, was always right, always understood.

But England did not understand. Italy looked down to the book. Then back to England. Back to the book, then back to England, as if his pleading eyes could speak silent morse code.

England sighed, an aggravated sigh that really shouldn't have made Italy feel so cowardly.

But it did. And Italy had to remind himself that it was just a book. Just a book that held words. And feelings. And secrets...and fears, and confessions, and joy, and tears, and blood, and —

Italy opened the book.

The world just watched on curiously, their array of mixed skin tones blending into one big blob. It was like one of Italy's coloring pallets. There were so many beautiful shades, so many nice and enriching colors that went well together in the beginning, only for in the end to turn out into a horrible glob of brown — a sickly brown that held no use anymore.

England nodded approvingly, assuring Italy that what he was doing was, in fact, the right thing to do. Italy gulped again and had to fight off the urge to throw the smooth journal away from him — throw the journal somewhere  _far, far, away_ , to a place that could not hurt him, and continue to hope and sigh that Germany would come back to him. Because that was what he always did.

Italy watched England retreat back to his seat by America and felt a swell of loneliness and pride. It seemed England was confident enough in Italy to not start breaking down again and panic out of the room. It seemed England was faithful that Italy would continue this and not back out. It was nice, or was it cruel? He didn't know anymore, but after so many years of pessimism and only having dreary doubts inside his head, choosing to believe the most positive outcome was the only thing he could do. And if England believed he can do it, so did Italy.

Yeah! Yeah, Italy can do it. Italy will  _not_  cry, will  _not_ scream, will  _not_ push his chair and fling himself to the safety of the crowded New York City street. Oh no, no. Of course not! Y-Yeah...of course not...

Romano moved closer to Italy. "Feli, you don't have to do this, you know. Someone else can do this...can deal with this mess —"

A shaky breath out.

"No. No..I can do this big brother. I-I can do this," a pause, "I have to."

Romano nodded unsurely but didn't move to stop Italy from looking down at the page for the first time.

"..."

"What's wrong? Why aren't you reading?" America asked seeing the Italian's eyes sweep across the page but not utter a word.

Italy's head snapped up, the same motion a frightened bunny would mimic in danger of its safety. 

"I just realized that I'm not that good in reading German. I have to translate it to Italian, then translate it to you guys, which makes my brain all confused and jumbly," Italy said with his eyes downcast. 

He felt as if he was giving another excuse. Another subconscious excuse to not continue and pass on the deed to someone else with his clammy hands. Just to give it to someone else — someone else who would understand German, would keep their cool, would know how to be emotionally stable, would know when to stop, when to stop —

"Austria! You should read this!" Italy said quickly getting from his seat and fast walking (running) to Austria to hand (shove) the book into his chest with a swift motion.

Austria sat dumbfounded for a moment, his hands clutching onto the book loosely with surprise.

"Now wait just a moment, I will not —" Austria stopped when he saw Italy's face. Italy seemed to be slightly trembling. His shiny, undoubtedly, expensive shoes made quick rustle movements as he shifted back in forth. His gaze didn't meet Italy's as his head was bowed down at such an angle, that it concealed his watering eyes.

_What are you so afraid of? Why are you still the same as back then?_

But Italy was no child anymore. He had too much blood underneath his uneven nails, too many sins in his bible filled with bills, and had seen too many horrors of what they called human nature to be considered a child.

"I cannot. This is something you must do for yourself Italy," Austria said firmly, pushing the book back to Italy. Italy accepted it, but his head violently shook no.

"Austria, if Italy doesn't want to read it, then he shouldn't have to be forced to —" Hungary was cut off by a patient Austria.

"If he can't do it, then none of us can. Who else has the right to read that? Not certainly me, or you, or anyone else in this room. It's not a matter of what he's reading, it's the fact that it's him reading. Do you understand?"

Hungary bit her lip and sent Italy another gaze of pity. She didn't like seeing those close to her hurt...

"This is great and all, but will someone read already?" Switzerland cut in, effectively ruining the thick atmosphere. His voice was naturally gruff. His thick accent and the promise of efficient discipline made Italy scurrying back to his seat.

Italy chuckled despite everything. He wiped a tear and felt his face morph into a more serious one, his cheekbones relaxing much too quickly to be natural.

Everything felt unnatural, surreal, out of the ordinary, out of this world, but with this weight in Italy's hand, he felt as if he could finally enter Germany's world. His world of dull colors made out of millions of different hues — all very similar but never the same — frigid lines made out of squiggles, thick and imposing, yet soft around the edges.

_Looking back, that moment had to be the easiest. If I had known what was inside, the words I was forced to speak out, the journey I had to go through because of your staccato sentences, I would have ripped the book at first sight. Ripped the book until no pages could be glued together, the pages twisting and ripping into ugly shapes and cuts. I would have destroyed that book, just as that book destroyed you._

Deep down, he wanted this more than anything. He wanted to know  _all_  of Germany. He didn't want the small text that's written in a textbook, or the vague hand motions of "when I younger," or "a long time ago," or, "don't worry about it." He wanted to be greedy, selfish, and possessive.

And with that thought, the yellow pages weren't as daunting as before. The rest didn't matter, the world didn't matter, because right then and there, on that warm July morning, Italy was trying to play with fire and could not be more curious to release the match.

* * *

 **"** ** _Germany's Journal. If found, return to Big Brother Prussia. Ludwig_** ** _Beilchsmidt,_** ** _"_** Italy said, his voice not holding the same tone as before.

The words were scribbled in childish sloppiness, but even back then Germany had seemed to be as serious and succinct as possible. Big Brother Prussia was marked out furiously and the name Ludwig was added in at a much later date (if the neat and symmetrical lines were anything to go by). This was only the first page, so Italy flipped.

 **"** ** _07\. August_** ** _1821."_** Italy wasn't so sure why all the other nations looked so surprised. Maybe they were shocked at how young Germany really was?

Wait...this date. This is only fifteen years after The Holy Roman Empire dissolved...

Italy kept reading to distract himself.

 **"** **_Big Brother has given me this useless thing with lines and words. I don't know what to do with this. I asked Big Brother and he said I was supposed to write in it. I told him I didn't know how, but that idiot just laughed at me. What a jerk! I don't think I'm doing this right..."_ **

Italy was having a hard time translating the poorly written German into the Universal language all nations shared quickly and swiftly enough for the sentence to not sound awkward and jerky. He was an Italian, and Italians were used to quick speech. Having to slow down and think was just uncomfortable.

Some of the nations giggled already liking young Germany. He did sound oddly cute...he could imagine a little Germany glaring at the pages under a lit candle as if the book were to blame for his lack of literacy.

_**"I guess I'm going to tell you things? I don't know what to write or what the rules are for this, but I'll try my best...Big Brother says I should stop having a 'stick up my ass', but I sit down just fine in chairs. Gilbert is the one who's been having trouble sitting down in chairs lately. He's been limping and hissing at how sore his bottom is. I hope Big Brother is okay..."** _

Almost everyone laughed. The feeling of worry was forgotten for a moment as they heard little, innocent Germany describe much too adult things for him to understand.

Austria flushed heavily as Hungary elbowed him suggestively. Even Romano was smiling at the thought of Prussia having a sore bottom.

Italy cleared his throat to continue, a smile on his face as well, shushing the nations into anticipation. Ah, story time.

 **"** **_Big Brother has been so kind to me. Am I allowed to say that? I'm sorry...I know how angry Gilbert gets when I get all 'feely'. I still can't believe he's my big brother. Mine! Nobody else's. How many can say that they have The Kingdom of Prussia as their big brother? None! That makes me happy. I don't want him to get hurt. Even if he if he is an idiot."_ **

Germany must sure love Prussia...it's endearing. This Germany is just as blunt as the current Germany, but this Germany is blunt with his feelings. Not with his words, Italy quickly mused before getting back to reading.

 **"** **_Big Brother is an idiot. He's a big jerk. He made the poor maid in our quarters scream last night! She kept yelling out, 'Gilbert, no! Gilbert, ah, no!' Poor woman! Why would Big Brother do that? I went to ask her if she was okay, that's what Big Brother said to do with ladies, and she became all red. It wasn't hot, nor was she sick, so I was confused when she ran away to the servants' quarters. That's only proof that Big Brother is a jerk. I haven't heard her scream, so I guess she's okay."_ **

"Really Prussia? Right in front of little Germany?" Hungary muttered annoyed.

 **"** **_Even though Big Brother is a bit of a jerk and has an ego the size of a really big tree, he's my Big Brother. And...I love him for that. Before, I was surrounded by dead bodies. It was stinky and my eyes were constantly getting teary, even when I wasn't sad. Wherever I went, there were dead people. My clothes smelled, I had no one and everyone hated me. They spat at me, and I felt like I didn't belong anywhere. The foxes were nice, though...when they weren't trying to bite me, they would listen. I felt better...but I always did cry alone in the forest._ **

_**I didn't know back then that my clothes smelled of pee and the chunky yellow goop on my torn clothes was vomit. My hair was a greasy mess and my feet felt awful. My belly was always grumbling and my eyes would always try to shut on their own. But I survived. I went to church (I didn't really know what it was, I just saw lots of food and smiling people around a nice man in white) and I tried my best to not die in the winters.** _

_**It hasn't been a year since Big Brother has adopted me.** _

_**I still remember last year. My hands had turned into a weird blue color and my legs felt like I was walking on pine needles! It was so horrible, but I couldn't shake the feeling away. The river water didn't help and the forest couldn't speak back to me.** _

_**I wonder if Brother knows how that feels like to be alone. Because I still don't believe it. He's been so nice and caring. He's never let my fingers turn that weird shade of purple or my skin get itchy. He throws me in the air as if I were some toy, but I actually like it. My laugh always ruins the silent treatment!"** _

Italy had to stop to get some saliva back in his mouth. Romano handed him his glass of water and he accepted it gratefully. The water — so cool and quick it was — went down his throat in no time. He sat the glass back down on the table and saw that the countries were thinking about the words just read.

So far, nothing had been useful. The only thing Italy got away from this was that Germany was an adorable young nation who adored his brother very much. Though he did learn something, something Germany would have never told him. Germany wasn't found by Prussia immediately after birth. He had suffered and wandered alone on the earth, wondering, questioning, testing, smiling, and crying at the complex toy that was the world.

He had been born from death.

That thought sent a chilling shiver down his spine. He couldn't picture it. The Germany he knew — the oh so calm and collected Germany everyone knew — was nothing like the scared boy on the second, wrinkled page. The thought of Germany crying over a bird, realizing that the bird had died and would no longer flap its wings, made Italy sad.

How had Ludwig looked at the world back then? How tall were things? How much bigger did life seem? Did he cry when he got a cut or did he rub the tears away and let his lip quiver?

Meanwhile, Russia sympathized with Germany. He as well had been born into a tundra, and it took many years before he could see real life flesh on his fat finger instead of black stubs. Those times were dark, but the world had been much simpler.

Just how far up north had Germany gone to get frostbite? Italy kept on reading after a couple drinks of the water Romano had given him.

 **"** **_I don't like to think of those times. The fourteen years I spent alone in the dark woods and ignoring the dark stares of the villagers. (Big Brother says they are my people. I think Big Brother is being dumb. I don't own any slaves). Those people felt cold to me and I'm glad I have a place to call home. This mansion is much better than my house built of rock and twigs that's for sure!"_ **

Italy blinked stupidly after reading that. Was that where Germany got his infatuation with sticks?

 **"** **_Living with Big Brother has been fun. I hope he doesn't read this...I would be so embarrassed!_ **

_**But living with him has been fun. I baked an apple pie with him and he didn't comment about how cooking was a woman's job. The servants helped and I thanked them. (I have manners, unlike Big Brother. He just grinned and made their faces as red as the apples they were peeling) He told me the apple pie was very good. I was...I was happy.** _

_**Is that what you call that happy? I felt my mouth being possessed into a large smile. Much bigger and wider than any cute forest animal could have made me. I cried thinking it was the Devil. Gilbert laughed and told me that I was 'happy.' It's all so strange, but Gilbert knows...Big Brother knows a lot. He's very smart (and old)."** _

"Did Germany really not know what happiness was for that long?" France murmured in disbelief. It was one thing to not be happy, but it was another to not even know the feeling. As if the word just wasn't part of Germany's very limited vernacular.

Fourteen years is like a blink to a nation. You know it happened, you know you just did it, but everything turns black for a second, and you forget what you just saw because of the blurriness and unimportance. You blink again. And again. And again, and again, and again, until eventually centuries have passed and you slowly try to remember what you saw through that millisecond of darkness.

It was nothing really, many other nations had it much worse, had lived in sadness for many years...but something about Germany's complete ignorance of happiness hurt him. For there to be happiness, there must be sadness, and many stay in the sadness as they know too little happiness.

But they know happiness. What it feels like, what it is. To not even know...to be confused, to be shocked and appalled at the notion of joy — it made France's fear of foreboding much stronger. Already as a child, Germany was writing a sob story.

And Germany hadn't even known it then. It was normal. 

"It seems so. But Germany was very young. It's normal," China said for the first time since the beginning of the meeting. Has it really already been an hour?

"I suppose..."

"Hey, we can talk about this after. I want to listen to Italy, so shhh!" America said annoyed.

They nodded, but could not wipe off the looks of pensiveness or downcast.

 **"** **_I really hate my shortness. I couldn't get any of the things on the tabletops, so Big Brother had to lift me up every time. He helped me get down and up, and I couldn't help but realize how fat my legs and arms looked compared to him. I didn't look tall. Or have a lot of muscles, I just looked..._ **

_**Big Brother didn't know why I was pouting when he put me on his shoulders. It felt nice being on his shoulders, I will admit, but I didn't like feeling so useless. I'm barely to his knees! His hand likes to go and mess up my hair a lot, and I don't really know why I let him do it so much. Maybe I like seeing Brother smile. I don't know, but I don't care, because somehow I smile too. Damn him."** _

"For a potato spud, he sure does like to write a lot. What is he? Fucking five? How can he write so damn much?" Romano just had to interject.

Italy looked down at the text. It was messy and the letters took up quite a lot of space, but even he was surprised at how much Germany had to say. How many words did Ludwig refrain from speaking on a daily basis?

"Lovi, stop interrupting," Spain said, trying to get rid of America's glare towards Romano.

"Fine," Romano relented not liking the look America was giving him either.

The page made a crinkling noise as Italy flipped gently.

_**"S** **o I decided I'm going to grow up big and strong. I'm going to grow up to be tall so that Big Brother doesn't have to pat my head and get the bowl from above me. I'll be strong, just like how Brother always tells me and become the best!** _

_**...But for now, I'm stuck like this. I'm stuck being short and called cute. For a 'manly man', Gilbert sure likes to dote on me. He likes to take me hunting with him (I did not cry when he killed a deer, okay?) and (if I'm lucky), he will let me wear his hunting hat. I'm strong! I get that weird possession to smile again when he pinches my cheeks and laughs at how the hat tips and my vision becomes one-sided. It's not funny. I can't see correctly, but he finds it 'adorable.' I never said Big Brother was normal.** _

_**Brother is a jerk. Brother is strong. Brother is stubborn. Brother is cruel. Brother is kind. Brother is...** _

_**Brother is the best thing to happen to me so far. I don't think I can ever repay him."** _

Italy stopped reading. Throughout the reading, his eyes would drift off to the messy ink blots and smudges of words around the edges. Italy smiled softly at the thought of Germany's chubby hands spilling ink and trying to clean up the mess immediately after like the clean freak he is.

That reminded him of the times when he would make pasta at Germany's house. How Germany would immediately wipe the counter as he skipped through the kitchen, how Germany's eyebrows would furrow at the sight of a fallen basil leaf on the ground and unchecked steam coming from the stove. How Germany...back then...when Germany was...at that time...just how they used to...like how Germany did...

The words were never written on the front and back side of a page as the ink bled too much. Huh. Was Germany left-handed?

Everything in these first three pages screamed  _innocence!_ It was just so child—like that he felt reminiscent of the days when he would rely on Grandpa Rome to get simple things like a bowl from many holes in the kitchen. Back when the world was much bigger, much brighter.

"That's the end," Italy said confused if he should continue with the next entry.

"Well, that was a load of shit."

"Romano, please, _"_  Spain said exasperatedly.

"What is the point in all of this? Why should all of us care about Germany's shitty childhood? Boo, hoo, he was lonely. So were all of us. This is a waste of goddamn time," Romano fumed.

In reality, he didn't care about the meeting. He had only come to not make his brother feel so alone, and since he was the oh so caring older brother, he  _had_  to come so Feliciano wouldn't cry and be embarrassing.

He came to discuss trivial ideas of foreign policies, trading, and security. He didn't particularly care for any of those things, but he did not come to be read some try-hard sob story. So what if Germany had been alone for fourteen years and didn't know what happiness was? Nobody in the damn room knew, so he didn't know why everyone was going soft and looking at the brown book in forlorn. As if their feelings could transcend all laws of science to current Germany.

Idiots. All of them.

"I suppose you would rather us continue the meeting as intended? Discuss the needs of the poor in Sri Lanka as planned? The discussion on political safety?" England asked casually. He was staring directly into Romano's changing eyes, the bright lights in the room making his emerald eyes stand out even more.

Romano's heart began to beat fast. He had a healthy amount of fear for England. That was something he believed would never go away, no matter how many guns and bombs he attained because something about the Englishman just... _was_ _not_ _right._ And Romano just had to stick his foot in the mouth.

Romano trembled. He would have ducked to hide behind Feliciano, but Feliciano was too busy sitting and staring at the both of them with that dumb expression of his. He instead grappled onto Spain's hand and tried to calm down. It would do him no good to start crying over something so trivial.

"No! Damn it, that's not what I meant and y-you know it." Curse his stuttering.

A sigh. "Of course, of course."

America sent England a strange look with an eyebrow raised.

England wasn't one to back down from an argument, especially a verbal argument that he knew he could win. America had to give England credit where he deserved. England may be a crybaby, a hopeless drunk, a fake gentleman, and have a big brother complex the size of Africa, but England was cunning. Even as a child, he had always been amazed at England's double meanings and persuasion. Where physical intimidation lacked, he made up with his language of running in circles.

America never seemed to have mastered it.

England didn't bother to turn his head towards America, but he sent a quick eye glance to tell him he was fine.

"Should I read the next entry?" Italy asked his thumb already on the next crisp page.

The nations murmured. Then they talked. Then they started shouting.

"When has Prussia ever been right? This could be some kind of joke!"

"Why would Prussia joke about this? This isn't something you give to a random nation."

"So Italy is a random nation now? You know —"

"That's not the point! Stop yelling and being immature!"

"Easy for  _you_ to say China. You're yelling just as loud as we are!"

"Why are they fighting, big brother?"

"Because they all have daddy issues."

"Oh."

"Okay, but, why are we wasting meeting time to read a diary? This can be talked about later. There are very important things that have to be —"

"Like WHAT. WHAT IMPORTANT THINGS?"

"This is so much fun! No one can tell that there's a bleeding America on the ground!"

"WHAT! AMERICA ARE YOU —"

"How can you be asleep at a time like this?!"

"FOCUS. What's important is that Germany called Prussia Big Brother~ I knew he could be cute if he wanted to~"

"Maybe we should just leave —"

"Yes, maybe we should just leave while they are high—"

"This is stupi —"

"YOU ARE STAYING," all the fighting nations yelled at once.

The third-world countries blinked in shock. What use were they in a European problem? They never cared about them before.

America sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He felt his cap gone, but didn't seem to care all that much.

"Ok, this meeting is turning into a mess. Without Germany here to do his screamy, yelly thing, we can't seem to even agree on one thing."

"Alright! Swiss cheese do your thing!"

"I said to stop calling me —!"

"Look at this shit. Can't even remember our names. Why should we listen to you?"

"Cuba is right, you are getting really annoying and—"

Liechtenstein grabbed a gun from underneath her long dress and shot at the ceiling three times in perfect composure. The smoke enveloped the small girl as she lowered the small gun to her lap once again.

The countries stopped strangling each other and used their mouths to gape instead of scream.

"Thanks..." America said shocked. He then looked up at the high ceiling and saw two busted light bulbs. His boss will  _so_ not be happy with this.

She smiled sweetly. "No problem, Mr. America." When did her accent sound so frightening?

The nations shuffled back to their seats in a newfound respect for the petite girl.

"Well, that was appreciated. Okay!" America said already standing up and walking towards to the front of the room so he could be the center of attention. He pointed to Italy again. Italy backed away a bit despite America being so far away now.

"Italy just read an entry of Germany's diary. We now know, A," he held out one finger in a gesture to counting, "that this is legit. This is not fake or a joke."

"How do we know that?" Russia asked curiously. Was there a validation he missed?

America took a second to answer. "Well, it's in German. That's one thing. It also mentions Prussia so —"

"No. It just said Big Brother. We are assuming that 'Big Brother' is Prussia," Belarus spoke, her voice factual.

"Italy, check if it says Prussia."

The book jumped a bit as Italy fumbled with it quickly. 

"It does. Right here," Italy pointed excitedly at the first page, "it says 'return to Big Brother Prussia! But it's been crossed out."

America nodded with a fist bump. "Nice job Garlic Bread. This is proof that this is legit and needs to be taken seriously."

"That still doesn't explain why Prussia just handed this to us. This is personal and Prussia isn't the type to just hand this stuff away," Spain said with a hand on Romano's collar to stop him from lunging at America for the insult.

"Maybe he couldn't figure it out on his own?" Hungary said just as confused. Prussia wasn't the type to open up. A family first kind of man.

France nodded in agreement. "It's obvious that Prussia has already read these entries and cannot figure this out on his own. Why and how he did the things he did is still the question."

Denmark leaned on his cheek, his palm sure to leave a red mark later. "This sounds fishy. I know Germany and he wouldn't just up and disappear. I think he would go bat-shit insane if he did. A damn work-a-holic. Gets him from his brother who also doesn't like to burden others," Denmark lazily glanced at Italy's frown, "no, no, doesn't like to burden others at all."

America tapped his chin thinking. Nothing was adding up. It was like the German brothers were mocking them. Playing a sick game. As if they wanted to toy with them, as if they wanted reven—

It was like an exhilarating mystery novel, where none of the clues matched until the brilliant detective figured it out and the story is over.

But no one in the room is a brilliant detective.

America let out a huff of frustration. He was the hero! This should be easy!

"Maybe he's already figured it out but wants us to figure it out. More specifically Italy..." a soft voice spoke out.

"Did comrade Canada speak?" Russia asked looking at the highly ignored Canadian.

"You know who I am?" The violet eyes sparkled with excitement and awe. His body shook excitedly in the cushioned, plastic seat.

Russia nodded. "Da. Comrade should speak louder so dumb nations hear?"

England blinked in shock. "Canadia, when —"

"Canada."

"— did you get here?"

"That doesn't matter England, what matters is that my bro has something to say and you guys keep interrupting him," America gestured annoyed. 

England grumbled a bit under his breath because he knew for a fact that America had jumped slightly when he had heard Canada's mellow voice.

Canada cleared his throat a bit and clutched onto Kumajirou tighter, but not enough to hurt the bear. "I said that maybe Gilb — I mean Prussia, intended this to be read by the world. Actually, more to Italy."

Canada ignored the questioning gazes of  _who's that, where is he from, is he a micronation, is he part of the U.N.?_

"Why wouldn't Prussia just hand it to me? Why would he go through the trouble of disturbing the meeting to give me this journal?" Italy asked confused.

"I don't know..."

The question was never answered.

* * *

_Even to this day, I don't know why you did it, Ludwig. Even after I had read all of those entries, I still don't think I can understand. And that is something I truly regret._

* * *

**dd. mm yyyyy** **—** **_Official way to write a date in Germany._ **

**_*Historical note: Smol Ludwig at this point wouldn't be called Germany but instead the German Confederation. Since his official name changes so much during the 19th century, I just chose the standard name Germany as it easier to understand._ **


	3. Limerence

* * *

"What should we do now?" France asked after a much-needed lunch break. With food in the nations' bellies and coffee in their blood, they felt more ready to attack the problem at hand. In reality, they were just as prepared as they had been an hour and a half ago.

America sighed exaggeratedly and sunk himself deeper into the cushioned chair, his bomber jacket making loud noises as it met the plastic.

"I don't know French fry, I don't know. Which isn't rad because I'm the hero and I always know what to do!" America pouted and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Bleeding hell, get a grip France! You know how stupid America is," England said while patting France's quivering back roughly. France was sobbing fake tears into his palms. Belgium overheard the debacle and shot him a look of pity from across the table

America sighed and said, "Listen to him Franny, the tea pervert knows what - hey! I'm not stupid!"

"You're right America, you're simply  _oozing_  intelligence right now," England said rolling his eyes while giving France a tissue. France kissed his hand in thanks and England immediately wiped both of his hands on his black slacks a little too furiously and quickly than necessary - it was as if simply being touched him was the equivalent of re-living the bubonic plague.

"Haha! You and your sarcastic ways! Gotta love it. Wouldn't be a meeting without you and your bitchy ways!"

England glared at America. "What is it you are trying to imply?"

America blinked. "You don't understand your own language or-"

"I would love to know how this ends, spoiler alert - it's angry, kinky sex - but we have a meeting to run, so can we get back on topic please?" Mexico once again cuts in. America gave an irritated huff out for being interrupted but cleared his throat anyway.

"Alright! Listen, my dudes, this is way wack and I honestly don't think we're gonna get anything done, so you can leave!"

"WHAT?!" Mexico leaped out of her chair to strangle the American with his tie. America spluttered as his glasses slipped down considerably, one more harsh jerk making the glasses almost slip off completely.

"Thank god-"

"What about the closing prayer and moment of silence?"

"I'm not Christian asshole-"

Mexico overheard chairs being scraped and backs being popped as countries all too gladly left the room. Her eyes darted to the various shaped backs leaving the room and felt America trying to inch away from her to push his glasses up. Her brown eyes met his blue ones much too quickly.

"Why wouldn't you let us leave earlier? I had -  _we_  had to sit through that useless reading for nothing!" America frowned. "It wasn't useless," he said tugging her tanned hand away from his tie gently, "we now know much more!"

Mexico rolled her eyes as she let go of him to cross her arms. "Yeah, well, it didn't even matter. It's not like you would have included me or  _mis_   _hermanos_  anyway, so I still call bullshit." America looked offended.

"I would so have! I'm fair...I would have totally...who am I kidding. No, I wouldn't have, but no hard feelings right?" He asked with a bright smile seemingly not caring that he had directly just told her that she was useless. That smile made her even madder. She stomped on his foot with her black stiletto. Her heel dug deep into his thin sneakers, but she found herself not feeling any better.

"Dude! What the hell?!" America cried while wiggling his foot as if that would make the pain stop.

"This  _dude_ ," Mexico hissed with a perfect impersonation of America's voice, "thinks this is all too fishy and a waste of time. Not just mine, but everyone's." America looked confused.

"Why would you think that? Germany needs to be brought back and since I'm a  _hero_ , it is my duty to-"

"That's not what I mean! Yes, I know Germany is very important, he's the major reason this organization exists but think America. Why is it only  _now_  that our governments are hounding on us to find Germany? Why not the last meeting? Or the last? Or, I don't know, fucking months ago!"

America seemed to pause. It was true, it had only been this meeting that his government had directly stated for him to find Germany (if he was still gone). He had mentioned it here and there- you know, getting the morning paper, in the break room for coffee but it was never explicitly stated. Never stressed, never pushed, never  _that_ important. With work and protecting (bullying) the world, that item of worry was pushed away to a bland vanilla folder for later. Later, soon, but never now.

But it was now and America didn't know what to do. He had too many questions, too many suspicious people.

Mexico sensed that this was a shock to him as well and sighed. Her previous annoyed expression morphed into one of wariness.

"All I'm saying that this all too fishy. With Prussia, Austria, Hungary and Italy. They are all suspicious."

"Why would you say that?" America asked fixing his glasses as if the answer would become clearer that way.

Mexico rolled her eyes. "Think about it. I'm sure you've seen it. The way Germany and Italy have been dancing around each other for a couple years now. At first, I thought it was a lover's spat,a bad fuck, a heated argument, but Germany purposely went out of his way to avoid Italy. For two years. Isn't that suspicious? How Italy just  _conveniently_  ignored that before and is now suddenly crying like a baby from one entry?" She said lowering her voice a bit.

"When you put it that way...So you think it's actually Italy who's the bad guy here? Come on, this is  _Italy_  we're talking 'bout."

Mexico smiled sardonically. "There are no such things as heroes and villains,  _pendejo._  I'm not saying anything, I'm just telling you to look at the bigger picture and clean your glasses once in awhile. You'll be surprised at what you'll find."

America smiled a charming smile to Mexico's neutral expression. "Don't worry your pretty little head, I'm going to bust this case and make everyone happy!" Mexico looked at him in disbelief but did not comment further.

"Whatever you say,  _gringo._ " She turned around and started to head towards the other southern countries waiting by the door. She was about to turn the handle to leave when she paused. Her lips parted to say something but she shook her head. She turned the handle and left, her heels making a soft  _click, click_  as she started walking away to rapid Spanish from the other side.

"If things weren't so bleak, I would have said that was quite cute. Do you fancy each other?"

England's voice made America jump. He turned around and puffed out his cheeks. "Not funny dude. We aren't like that." But his face betrayed his tongue as his cheeks reddened slightly.

England hummed and looked at Italy. Italy had yet to move, his eyes staring at the book in - what was it? For such expressive eyes, England could not conjure a word to describe it. Italy was ineffable. Italy was not vibrating in place, not shouting a random president's name, eating, sleeping, doodling, humming- nothing. Just staring.

Romano had left as well. He had insisted that he should stay with his younger brother, but Italy had given him a wide smile and told him he was fine. Romano argued and shouted, but Italy insisted that he was  _fine._  More arguing ensued, but in the end, Italy had more power and left Romano tight-lipped and fuming. Romano let out a teary "whatever" and left sniffing with Spain out the door shortly after Mexico.

France had also left almost immediately afterward. There was only so much of the Englishman and sexual tension he could stand, so he had left with the nation exodus.

Austria and Hungary had lingered as well. Hungary had moved towards Italy in a motherly fashion while Austria trailed behind her stiffer.

"Oh, my poor Italy. Don't you worry, Germany will come back," Hungary had gained a dark shadow over her eyes, "or else I'll make him. Don't you worry dear." Austria had sensed that the conversation from then on wouldn't be civil and dragged the shouting woman out the door in the promise of sweet bread and piano music.

Fifteen minutes had passed since America had disbanded the meeting and it wasn't much of a shock to see so many pushed back chairs around the table.

"Back to square one, huh?" America said looking frantically side to side.

"Yes, it seems that there has only-"

"That was my good hat too! Will Smith signed it and everything. This is not cool beans."

England's eyebrow twitched as he stared at the younger nation on his knees below the table. "Why would you want that atrocious thing? It's bleeding pink."

America's head shot out- like a jittery groundhog. "Hey! Don't diss the cap just because you're just jealous!"

"Oh bollocks, you've caught me America. I'm secretly  _super_  jealous of your bright pink, cheaply manufactured in China, hat."

The sarcasm seemed to fly over America's head as he laughed saying, he knew it!

England grudgingly gave him the hat back to shut America up. America cradled it in his chest for a few seconds before shoving it in his pocket. It stuck out awkwardly and it was quite large for the small pocket of the slacks, but England was glad he wasn't wearing it on his head anymore.

"Well, that's out of the way, we need to do the next thing on the list."

" _We?_ "

"Well, duh! You're helping me!"

"With what? I have things to do as well-!"

"Like knitting and doing air guitar to Nirvana songs from the radio alone in your room? Nope, you're helping me and," America leaned down to whisper into England's ear, "we're going to figure out more of this Germany business." England looked at him unimpressed. "And  _what_  do you propose we do? You heard Mexico, this is all too fishy and it was only a fortnight ago that we were even notified of this," England whispered back glancing at Italy nervously.

"What the hell is a fortnight? Anyway, the answer is in our face! I don't know why we are making this such a big deal, we literally have all the answers in our face!" America whispered back excitedly. England's eyebrows furrowed deeply-an unattractive crease forming on his forehead.

"The journal? It can't be that simple…"

America let out a pfft. "Don't listen to Mexico, she's all weed and tacos. Come on, we're going to go read another entry." America stood up but was harshly jerked back down by England.

"Are you mad?! Can't you see how emotionally affected Italy is right now. I mean look at the poor sod, he's devastated," England hissed.

"Veh~ I can hear you England," Italy said looking at the pair with expectancy. England flushed a deep red.

"O-of course, I knew that! I  _meant_  for you to overhear. Since you're so nosy and all. Yes, yes, not gossiping at all."

"Veh~"

"How much did you hear?" America said walking over to sit by Italy instead of denying the statement.

Italy shrugged. "Enough."

America raised a brow. For Italy to look this dead, so blase, this... _unhappy_  was quite alarming. England caught on as well and sat by Italy's left, America on Italy's right, effectively trapping the Mediterranean nation in the middle. "Are you sure you're alright lad?"

Italy looked ready to cry. He looked down at his hands- the one's trembling, clutching onto his pant legs as if it were dear life, some kind of reassurance that  _he_  was still there. Italy nodded a mechanical nod but did not voice a response.

America, not one for awkward pauses, immediately filled the room with sound again. "There's no reason to cry Italy, as the hero, I will save Germany!" America's voice softened.

"We'll save him, don't worry. Germany has tried to get away from us before, but he's always been dragged back, right? Germany's probably...I don't know, in dog heaven or something."

Italy's head snapped up. His eyes were streaming tears once again. His hands gesticulated wildly as he cried, "What?! Germany's dead! Nooo, I don't want Germany to die! He can't be dead!" America looked at England, but England just gave him a deadpan look.

"Woah, woah, dude! I was just kidding! Germany's not dead, it was just a figure of speech sopleasestopcryingalready!" America frantically said trying to console the crying man. Italy stopped crying, all tears ceasing in a split second- as if they were never there in the first, and gave out a happy  _veh~_. Italy looked at the uncomfortable looking England and let out a giggle.

"It's so nice for you to help America~ Veh~" Italy said smiling a dopey grin.

America grinned. "Of course! I gotta help a country in need," America said flashing him a thumbs up. "But a hero needs a little help, just a little, though! So if you can just…"

"Just what?"

"You know, the first clue. Like a puzzle!" England facepalmed at how bad America was at alluding to things. Especially to a dense nation like Italy.

"Veh! There was a puzzle? When? Where?!" Italy's head couldn't stop shaking both ways - as if the answer would randomly appear out of thin air.

"No, dude, the puzzle was a figure of speech-"

"Figure of speech? Veh~ Language is confusing~"

"So, yeah it is. But anyways, that's not the point, I just need you to, you know, give the goddamn-"

"What is the point? I don't see the point."

"There is no point, but-"

"Then why are we talking America?" Italy asked, oh so innocently.

"Just hand over the journal for fucks sake!" America finally exclaimed in frustration. Italy's eyebrows furrowed.

"You want the journal? Why?" America looked ready to shove the small man and steal the book away.

England put a hand on America's shoulder in what he hoped was a placating manner. "Let me handle this," England whispered clearing his throat unnecessarily - a scratchy sound that sounded painful and unpleasant.

"Italy, we need the journal, and you are going to give it to us," England ordered in a monotone voice. America squawked and England gave him a smug smile at Italy's fearful shaking. Italy gulped.

"Y-you never t-told me why, though," Italy stuttered out still holding his ground.

England looked at America questioningly. " _Because_ ," America began exasperated, "this thingy is going to lead us right to Germany, and I dunno about you, but I really want my government to stop buggin' me about this. They need to chill out, sooo, the faster we find Germany, the better for all of us!"

 _The better for me_.

"...S-so you don't care that Germany is gone? This is just for your government?" Italy asked not changing tone or volume.

America looked at England for support but England kept his mouth shut. "We care that Germany is gone...of course, pizza dude, don't go puttin' words in my mouth."

"Veh~ we care? Who is we exactly?"

England's eyes widened. "What America means is that Germany has yet to be found and that is very worrisome - for everyone, lad. Our bosses, a bunch of sods really, demand things like this so, not only will we help you find Germany, but we will appease our superiors. You understand what I'm getting at?"

England had jumped up and moved quickly to shut America's mouth tightly with his left hand. America had been squirming and he had licked England's hand multiple times, but England had only gripped tighter and continued talking. America kept a sharp eye on Italy's increasingly depressing atmosphere - an invisible thing it was, yet so tangible for those who looked for it.

"...This book doesn't belong to me. You could have taken it anytime," Italy stated matter-of-factly.

"Yes, that is true, but..." England slowly lets go of his grip on America's mouth and sat back down not knowing how to proceed. What America had in mind was a question to him and Italy alike.

"So we can read this right? No hard feelings?"

Oh. Now England understood.

It wasn't that he couldn't read the journal, technically anyone could, but it was more of a personal thing. An ethical matter of prying into someone's property, into someone's beloved treasure. After all, Germany was practically Italy's and by reading Germany's (Italy's?) journal, it would be, in some kind deep, primal and savage way, an intrusion of what was  _his_.

America can be considerate...but also incredibly stupid.

Italy smiled despite it all. That's all he could do - smile, laugh, force his cheeks to turn a different way and hope for the best. "Veh~ Go ahead."

America cheered with a bright grin. Really, such a child he was.

"Sweet! I can take this back to my place right?" He asked greedily grabbing (man handling) the already fragile book in his excited hands.

Italy bit his lip unsure. "Prussia didn't say if any of us could keep it…"

America rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but I'm sure he was implying that I could keep it. I mean, why wouldn't he? I'm the her-!"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence," England hissed. He schooled his expression into one one more reservedness and looked to Italy searchingly. "This wasn't something we discussed because  _someone_ ," England glared to America, "decided to end the meeting early, but we need to establish who will keep the book."

Italy looked confused. Typical, really.

"You or America," England clarified.

A moment of silence passed between them. Thirty seconds passed before America shouted that he had won.

"What? Won what America?" England said annoyed at America's attention span of a goldfish.

"The staring contest me and Italy were having. Isn't that right,  _Italy?"_

Something about America's blue eyes didn't sit well with Italy. They were just so blue, so clear, so piercing that he felt the same chilliness run through his body as the clarity of the younger - but a much more powerful - nation. Maybe it was the light, maybe the stress, maybe the smile, but Italy felt as if he couldn't escape this one through tears or a white flag.

"R-right," Italy said squirming. England raised an eyebrow but was easily ignored.

America hummed as he flipped through the book. England grew curious as well and looked at the tearing pages in fascination.

"Oh shit."

"What?"

"I don't know how to read this old German!" America cried out in distress. He flung the book carelessly onto the table in agitation. The harsh, jerky movements caused a page to completely rip away - the yellow paper barely hanging onto the binding before, just one sudden move, just one pull, just one touch away from collapsing.

And it did.

Such a fragile thing those pages were, the older pages being needed to be taken with the utmost care, and America sent the pages flying haphazardly through the air. The pages made ungraceful movements as they descended onto the ground quickly.

"Oh shit! No, no, no!" America exclaimed as he tried to snatch the papers from the ground and sort the scribbled pages in what he hoped was chronological order. The german started to blur in his head and he was frantically trying to not create any more creases and tears.

He felt as if his heavy hand caused more destruction - his nimble fingers fumbling and failing. Italy and England just watched in morbid fascination. What a show this was. A destructive, humiliating, yet entertaining show of misery.

With the pages back in the book - the pages sticking out at awkward angles and uneven - America offered Italy a weak smile.

"Haha..so I  _may_  have messed up a little, but trust me, this book is in good hands!"

Italy just gaped. America had demanded to take the book from him, tried to play the nice guy by tricking him to think that he was considering his feelings - a fake sympathy, he couldn't tell - went and almost destroyed the book - an artifact, (an irreplaceable-!) because of a simple obstacle. He didn't even consider the age, the fragility, the worth, the meaning...he...he didn't care.

None of them did.

Italy swallowed down another set of tears. It was stupid really, why would he cry over something like that? Just a couple pages gone from the glue. A couple words misplaced. An honest mistake from an excited child. Nothing to cry over.

Yet, Italy had never felt like bawling more than now. It just wasn't fair. When will the curtains swoop in and signal the end of the show? Why can't the lights go black and the audience clap already?

If Italy was devastated, England was enraged.

"AMERICA! You just almost destroyed the blasted thing with your  _whale_  hands! Don't you understand how severe this is? Is this some kind of fucking joke to you? You could try to control your strength and not man handle everything!"

"Woah, woah, I'm sorry okay! I didn't think it would just go  _splat_  like that, jeez! Besides it was only the papers that came out so it's not like burnt the book or anything, so stop yelling!" America shouted back.

Italy ignored them and took a couple deep breaths to expel the thoughts of  _cry, cry, cry, cry already,_ and took the journal in his hands once more. It still felt heavy. It still felt old.

"I'm going to read another entry. Then I'm going to take it back home," Italy said with a sniff. His voice was even enough and it caused the men to stop arguing and stare.

"No way dude, that thing is coming home with me. With the tech I have back at my place, I bet I can find Germany in a jiffy."

"What tech? That slow thing you call the bloody interweb? No, internet. Oh, let me guess, you're going to find Germany with a pager," England said sarcastically already wanting to leave and go home to his cat and warm tea.

"I'm taking this to my place because you don't seem to care." Italy wasn't in the mood to be cute at the moment.

"I do so care-"

"This isn't a game America!" Italy finally shouted with his eyes open with tears ready to leak out. Italy gently clutched the book his chest. "This, this isn't a joke, o-or a competition, or a game. You can't just laugh it off and think it will be okay. This isn't something to play with!" Italy said softer now, looking down at the table instead of the azure eyes of America that Germany had gifted him with. He smiled bitterly.

"I'm going to take this with me and find him. I may not have...the internet web thingy you have, but I will try my best."

America let out a defeated sigh. "You really love him doncha?"

Italy blinked upwards, his gaze meeting America's curtly.

Love? Did he love Germany? He didn't think it was love. Germany was his best friend, a friend he felt as if he had met before (he was desperately trying to run away from that ghost kissing him warmly, run, run, run -) and he cared a lot for the socially stunted man. He felt as if he had heard that before. That he loved Germany. Was it France? Or was it Austria? He can't remember.

Italy didn't answer and America didn't give him time to as he was already getting up and yawning. England got up as well and grumbled, yet he did not leave either.

"Well, it seems that I can't do anything to pry that book from ya," America said. He grabbed his coffee cup (where had that come from?) and took an obnoxious sip. "Don't think I won't help, though. Because after all-"

"Dear god, don't you bloody say it."

"-I'm the hero!"

"Dammit."

England sighed. "I'm going to regret this later, but I'm also willing to help. Germany's not a bad man, a violent, sexually repressed man with too much hair gel, but not a bad man. So." England turned away to hide his blushing face.

Italy smiled genuinely. "Veh~ thank you England. America. This means a lot to me~!"

"HAHA! Gnarly dude!" America laughed at England's horrified, disgusted face.

"You should see your face!"

"Belt up! I swear you become duller and duller every time I visit you. Pure rubbish I tell you-"

"Is your tampon a little tight Iggy? It's ok, I have some pills to-"

"YOU-!"

_Click._

Italy was alone. The once lively room was now vacant. The light bulb Liechtenstein had shot at earlier was flickering on and off. The room was considerably darker on one side, but with so many other industrial-sized lights and bright windows, you could barely tell the difference.

Italy stopped clutching the book on his chest and set it down on the table. He didn't have to read it out loud, hide the quivering in his voice or act like the words on the page weren't affecting him. He hadn't been reading anything gruesome or sickening before, but the sentences still made his stomach queasy. An unshakable breath of fear that followed his neck at all time, making his hair stand up in alarm. This feeling of dread...he didn't like it one bit.

Because every time he felt this way, someone died.

Just as Grandpa had. Just as Holy Rome had.

He kept telling himself  _if only I had acted on that feeling_  over and over again in his mind - on those restless nights where the room was too hot, the pillows too stiff, the world too silent. It had always been what if's and if only's and now that there is the what now…

He opened the book and carefully flipped the pages. He was now more cautious after seeing America rudely defiling the innocent journal in his fit of mini rage.

He skimmed the pages and saw that America had surprisingly placed all the pages back in their rightful place. They were put a bit sloppy, that couldn't be helped from the haste, but overall the book wasn't in  _terrible_  condition. Maybe he had overreacted a bit...maybe he should have gone and given the book to America...he is more stable at the moment...has more technology...

Italy shook his head. He flipped and read. He placed his finger on the indented page and was surprised to see long dried tear stains. There weren't many, but the ones on the page were rather large. The page felt crinkly and he quickly looked at the date.

 **" _14.September_**   ** _1869"_ **

Italy recoiled a bit at the time gap. Nearly fifty years since the last entry. To think, forty-eight years had gone by and it only took Italy a second to flip through the page.

 **" _I have not written in this journal for a long time and I apologize. A lot has been on my mind lately…"_** The writing was neater. Much straighter and smaller. The letters were no longer crooked and scribbled, but the scribe was still not as neat as it could have been.

**" _Big Brother has been so cold lately. Can I call him that? Lately, all he wants me to do is train. Like, all the time. I trained with him before, I'm not lazy, but this is just extreme! I don't know how to word this, I'm just so frustrated!_**

**_It's always: One more lap. One more push-up. Stop being a baby. Again. Stop being lazy and move. I'm not being lazy, I just can't go on._ **

**_We don't stop for anything. Literally, anything. I bet if Brother saw a herd of cows, he would tell me to run with them for endurance and strength._ **

**_Just yesterday, Brother had called me out to the field to train. Like always. Training is important, I understand, but every day? Couldn't I just get a break? My legs were still sore from yesterday, twenty laps around the whole village weren't enough apparently, and he demands to be met on the field every day at sunrise, or else he will make the training an hour longer."_ **

Italy lowered the book for a moment.

" _Can't we just take a nap? Veh, it's so nice out today Germany."_

" _We can if you want to die of heart failure."_

" _Veh! So mean.."_

Why would Germany abide by Prussia's strict rules if he knew all too well how annoying and laborious they are? Germany knew how it felt, how it made him look like, yet -

Germany didn't care if Italy and Japan hated him.

**" _At first, I took the threat lightly. Brother loves me- well, loved, I suppose. He would...embarrassingly coddle me and spoil me before. He disciplined me when needed, but I can't say he liked doing it. But now, I take that all back. He enjoys my suffering!_**

**_Yesterday at training (Hell) he demanded twenty-five laps around the village in less than an hour. After that, fifty push-ups with sacks of potatoes on my back and then gun practice for another hour. Repeated three times. With no breaks in between and barely any water. Where did my loving brother go? Is it because I'm taller now? Less 'cute'?_ **

**_I was wheezing on the ground by the second round. I needed to catch my breath, I needed a break but Prussia just yanked me by my hair and demanded why I wasn't running. Why I was being a 'little bitch' about things. I couldn't speak out any words as I was breathing too heavy. My throat was dry and the sun was sweltering. It was midday._ **

**_The sunburns still hurt. The nape of my neck is a disgusting red and this stiff collar is no help at all. I can't move my neck much and my face has surprisingly tanned a bit, but some parts of my face have not be spared to the blotchiness. I would ask Brother if there's a remedy for this burn, but he always shoos me away looking more serious than he really is. Who is he playing? I know he wants to coddle me...no. He doesn't._ **

**_He doesn't care about me anymore. He's almost the same as that pervert France. That time...I was so scared back then. It had been my first time away from Big Brother. France is a slimy man that I do not trust. But at least he didn't make me work like this. Maybe I like him better. Better women…"_ **

Italy read the text with sad eyes. He had seen Prussia in his glory days, an army as a nation as they used to say, and he knew how vicious the man could be.

Italy never knew the hard life. Not like his older brother. His hands were not calloused or overly tanned. He did not need to work very hard, his land being naturally vied for with its natural resources and rich culture. What a shock it had been when he had started training with Germany back during World War I.

He suddenly had dirt under his nails. He felt the sticky moisture running down his back, not sweat from the sun, but from physical activity. His body was sore, but it had been sore because he had inflicted the stinging on himself. Not because of his economy or battles, but because he had done it to himself. It had felt...odd. Annoying. But seeing Germany's proud smile behind his cap made it all worth it.

If Germany back then couldn't have even gotten a proud smile out of Prussia, what was the point? Italy had to admire Germany's willingness to follow conduct,even to the hands of the Devil.

Italy continued.

**" _Yesterday's training seems like a blessing now. Prussia wasn't pleased that I wasn't improving on my time on the laps so he made me run through the whole village with a sack of flour in my arms. It was hot, the hottest it has been for a while, and the bag of flour was hard to hold with me running so fast. I had sat the bag of flour down to catch my breath twenty minutes in, but Prussia screamed in my face to get moving again. My legs ached, the sunburn was chafing under my sweaty collar and I felt weak._**

**_I lasted another ten minutes before I started wheezing heavily. I had to stop. The sun was so hot, it felt like an inferno. I couldn't have been so warm, it shouldn't have been possible, but with no water and my lungs heaving heavily, it felt like the closest thing to Hellfire._ **

**_I don't remember exactly what Brother said, I just knew I was crying and he was yelling at me to stop crying. I could feel the villagers staring and gossiping behind my back. I must have looked pathetic. Wheezing, crying, gasping, and hunched over like that. I begged him for some water, for a short break but he kept telling me how on the battlefield there is no break or water or please brother._ **

**_I guess I am being a baby. Brother has gone through so much. He has a lot of experience! But, I don't think it was worth the humiliation._ **

**_I felt woozy. It was the oddest feeling. I felt so out of touch with the world for a few seconds, I truly thought Brother's eyes were the Devil and that I was finally going to die. My head had that same feeling of being drunk and my eyes were trying to find something to focus on and not look so pathetic for Brother. Everything became blurry and there was a slight ringing in my ears._ **

**_I felt my chin hit the ground in a numb fashion. I felt it, but I didn't feel it. I think it was a warning from God. I think he was trying to tell me something because before I knew it, all I saw was black._ **

**_I had passed out from exhaustion. That's what Brother tells me, but I firmly believe it was God. I had heard a voice calling me. Ludwig, it had said. It was worried and I knew that a kindness like that can only be from God. It just has to be, because I know Prussia couldn't have said that. My human name probably means nothing to him anymore."_ **

Italy ran his fingers through the smudged ink. Black ink and tears had blurred the words together making it a bit difficult to make out. He felt the page dip with every cursive letter. A confused and sad teenage Germany fluttered through his mind. He could just imagine him dipping the quill in the black ink and pressing the pen firmly - too firmly - on the page to vent out the anger and hide (unsuccessfully) the tears.

If Germany could make Italy feel this way with only the second entry, he didn't want to know how the entries would become further down the future.

**" _I remember when he gave me the name Ludwig. I was so happy and touched that he had let me chose it. I wanted him to choose it for me, though. Naming myself isn't special. I could have done that anytime, but if it was a name from Brother, it was more special. It still his...but, I really do wonder where that kind man went._**

**_I'm scared for tomorrow. Brother hasn't said a word to me since I woke up from my little...episode and it worries me. Am I that much of a failure? I just want to be like Brother...but I know deep down I never can be. I could list all of the reasons why, but ink is expensive and it's not like Brother will buy me more._ **

**_This experience has taught me something, though. First, never cry at someone yelling at you. Especially a superior. This will be hard to master, but I loathed that feeling of humiliation and weakness. I can't stand it!_ **

**_Second, I will never treat anyone like that. Ever. I've been having these weird chest pains lately and more headaches...I've become more irritable and I've been having this urge to just slap Prussia and scream at him, but I feel like it's just the emotions talking. Either way, treating someone like that is just wrong! Prussia can fight me, I don't care, this is cruel._ **

**_I've read this emotion called revenge in many books. It's a stupid emotion that only seems to cause trouble, but as the days go on, I wonder if that's really the case. I just hate that look. It's the same one France had when he took me for his dumb Confederation. It just makes me so riled up!_ **

**_I have a massive head pain at the moment and Brother thinks I'm asleep, so I cannot write much longer. I hope the maids know better than to read this while I sleep…"_ **

Italy stared at the final paragraph. France? What did France have to with anything? Italy had to really dig deep in his memory to remember what was going on in Europe in the late nineteenth century.

 _Ah, so much stuff to remember! Makes my brain hurt, veh~_  Italy thought running hazy dates through his head quickly.

By the late nineteenth century, he had already known of Holy Rome's death. It was hard not to know when living such a small, clustered continent. He remembered the murmurs and rumors of a new nation up north from him. A small and probably-is-going-to-die-soon nation. If only he had known back then.

Italy smiled a bit. He by then had already gained his independence and was in the process of (grudgingly) unifying his country into a single kingdom with its southern half. He winced at his younger self's attitude towards his older brother. He may have been a bit of a dick...and a diva, and spoiled, but really, no country could just be selfless.

The Kingdom of Italy. What a nice name that had been. So regal, so imposing, so...powerful. A kingdom. A kingdom that barely lasted. A kingdom that had crumbled, had been brutally destroyed.

Italy frowned not liking his line of thinking. Italy tried to remember the epoch that was close to the date on the thin page in front of him.

Italy declared war on Austria in 1866 (what it was over he couldn't care to remember) with the help of Prussia and never saw or heard of Germany. Prussia is not one to keep things to himself, especially promising things such as an uprising, powerful nation. Or the chance to be called a big brother (again). Prussia should have been babbling and boasting about his "awesome" younger brother, an obedient and "cute" thing he called Deutschland, but if Italy remembered right, Prussia didn't make one single comment about Germany.

He had just grinned, uniform ready, and patted his back too hard saying, "his Ita is finally growing some balls."

Could it have been that Prussia didn't want Italy to know? Was it possible that he had kept his lips shut for the sake of Italy because he had known of whose land that used to belong to?

...Had Prussia been considering his feelings back then?

That...was nice of him. Nice, but unneeded.

Italy sighed and looked out the window. He stared at the blue water of the East River.

America just had to exploit every resource, didn't he? Nothing was left untouched in his country it seemed. Medium sized, old boats floated along the river in what Italy assumed, commerce. In the pristine, perfectly air - conditioned building, he could not hear a thing expect the machines dull hum in the background. What noises lay outside...New York City wasn't just a city, it was a country of its own. Culture, dialect, influence, heterogeneity, capital, resources, it had it all. It just needed a leader and it could have passed as a nation - it had worked for half of Europe (but many of those countries died within the century).

The calm waters did not calm him. The water was not blue, no doubt from so many years of pollution and lackadaisical humans, and the sight should have been something comforting - being a Mediterranean country after all - but he couldn't help but think it was a fake calmness. The words from the journal ran through his head. Over and over and over and over and over again.

He racked his brain of what use they could have. What their importance could be. A code? He doubted that. A secret longing to be with his brother? Maybe Germany was in love with Prussia. Maybe Prussia was disgusted with that love and shoved the book to the nations in hope to run away from the truth. Out of sight, out of mind after all.

That thought stung. It left a pain in his chest that he couldn't explain why it did. He had to keep thinking- keep thinking to try to forget the feelings he's trying to hide….

Italy looked at the bright window hypnotized - so bright, so warm, so -

* * *

"I don't know where he is Mr. Amato sir...it's not like Germany confides in me much anymore."

"You're so clingy to him. How do you not know where he is?"

"Well, he hasn't really talked to me since that meeting of 199-"

"It must have been your fault then. It's always your fault."

"...maybe, but Mr. Amato, I don't know what you expect from me, I know as much-"

"You went to that meeting right? Did you do nothing again?" Italy winced at the frustrated, impatient huff.

"I did Mr. Amato, no one knows where Germany is either! Not even Mr. America, Mr. Amato sir-"

"Will you stop calling me that? It's just Mr. Amato," the older man snapped through the speaker close to Italy's ear. Italy distanced the large phone away from his ear and stuttered.

"A-ah, I'm sorry-"

"Just find Germany quickly. This is important and you can't be a fuck up like always. Got it?"

"Yessir! I will find Germany and-"

The line went dead and Italy stared at the thick, tan block in his hands. The new and improved phone America liked to brag about. Only the finest he had boasted. It did the same thing and he still heard the same people. What was new…

He sighed as he heard the distinct click of the blocky phone hitting the plastic. He looked at the different numbers for room service and wished there was a number to take away his worry.

"Such a bastard. Corrupting my economy and demanding things...I'm worried too!" Italy told the dim hotel room in anger, all his fear replaced by annoyance. He lied on the cool bed on his side trying to calm down.

"I want him back too..." Italy muttered softly to the warm, white pillow. He clutched the fine fabric in his hand and felt his eyes close half way. The journal was on the glass table by his bedside. He had a beautiful view of the city life, but having visited New York City so many times, the lights had lost their glamor and have become annoying. The noise pollution was irritating and the luminescence was too bright, too fake. It seemed like a waste to him, but he couldn't deny how captivating the buildings are with their soft glows.

Italy turned around and checked the dull light of the digital clock.

Eleven o'clock.

Early for a city that never sleeps.

Italy turned around and was supine on the bed. He forced his eyes shut. He squeezed them tight and saw the annoying phosphenes dance around in his vision before returning to a solid black.

One minute. Two minutes. Four minutes. Six minutes. Ten minutes.

His eyes snapped back open, the room just the same as it had been ten minutes ago. He expected it to change - as if his internal struggle would distort the world because of his angst. His hand absentmindedly patted the cool bed-sheet beside him as if Germany's warm, sturdy body would appear and tell him to go back to sleep in his gruff, mellifluous voice.

He would then whine and snuggle closer to the tense, large back. He would be shooed away verbally but the body wouldn't move. It would be warm and he would sigh in content. He would whisper sweet dreams and the response would be late and soft. The pale body would hitch its breath and not go to sleep until after he was snoring lightly and disgustingly comfortable. He would then…

God, Italy missed Germany. He missed him so much.

It was pathetic. How his heart could clench and twist at the thought of Germany's soft, awkward blush and mutters of an affectionate  _dummkopf._ He felt like a child clinging onto the long dress of its mother for protection- needy, clingy and lonely. His lip was aquiver with longing.

Italy decided to turn on the television. The first thing that appeared was Disney Channel. Some reruns of Duck Tales were playing and he smiled slightly at the dull colors from the thick, rounded glass screen. The television filled the room with crashes and high pitched voices, but Italy felt content- if only for now.

During an Easy-Bake Oven commercial, Italy jumped at the shrill sound of the hotel phone. It rang unnecessarily loud and he groaned at the aspect of his boss calling again.

He picked up the phone and held it a good distance away from his ear in case of sudden yelling. "Ciao? Feliciano Vargas speaking."

"Italy! Good thing you're not asleep yet, 'cuz I forgot to tell everybody that there will be no more meetings this week. You can go home," America yelled with loud, honking noises in the background. A street ambiance. He was no doubtingly calling from a local pay phone and was probably out having fun. Although it was a Thursday, it seemed that New Yorkers said fuck you to time and date and partied when they pleased.

"What? I had plane tickets to leave on Monday!" Italy said sitting straight on the bed. He quickly fumbled with the long T.V. remote and muted the television, leaving the smiling girls speechless.

America made an uncaring noise. "Sorry dude, but without Germany here and the book being the only thing we can work with, there's no point in havin' em. 'Sides, I bet you don't wanna read out loud that thing every day 'till Monday right?"

"Right..."

"So yep! I bet ya can find a plane back home anyway. Travel safe!"

"Wait-"

Italy lowered the device and stared at the beeping phone in disbelief. He slammed the phone down harshly to shut the annoying ringing.

He looked at the muted television, the humorous ducks on the screen doing nothing for his foul mood. The small duck with the blue cap had gotten comically punched and the other ducklings were laughing with tears in their eyes soundless. He grabbed the remote and pushed the red off button harshly. The colors slowly faded away as the last frame froze on the glass and melted away soon after as well.

Italy took off his shirt and pants along with his socks. He crawled into bed and struggled to reach the light switch on the wall lamp. He eventually found it and flicked it off. He lied in bed and thought. His eyes refused to shut, his head had a dull throb to  _sleep_ , but he kept his heavy eyelids open.

He heard the clock ticking and he didn't know how he could be thinking about nothing, absolutely nothing and be considered alive. It was a fascinating thing. To just stare in the dark alone, to hear your own breath go in and out, to hear the too loud heartbeat through your ear and feel nothing. Some had described as God, others the Devil, others insanity. In the end, they were just different words to describe the same feeling.

Having enough with his fickle feelings, he closed his eyes once more and tried to force the annoying questioning on how his breathing came naturally and how to breathe again normally. He took a deep breath- the exhale leaving a warm trace on his upper lip- and thought about happy things. Like pasta and women.

Just...think about happy things…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermanos — brothers in Spanish
> 
> Gringo — Spanish slang for a U.S. citizen
> 
> Pendejo — Spanish slang for idiot/dumbass
> 
> Germany's gift to America (blue eyes) — There are three main waves of immigration in the U.S. The first being the "Old Immigrants" that were from Western Europe before the 1880's. Many of them were German and Scandinavian, thus America having heavy roots with Germany. Germerica?
> 
> Dummkopf — German for idiot
> 
> Everything in this chapter is as historically accurate as I could find. July 16th, 1992 was actually on a Thursday. The U.N. building is in front of the East River in New York City and is huge! Even Italy's boss was researched, so feel free to correct me on any of that. Relying on Wiki here.
> 
> I don't remember the early 90's, so it's actually very interesting to do research on the tech and culture back then. Pagers were much more common than cell phones, but I couldn't find if they were international so I made none of the nations have it.
> 
> The story is finally going to pick up after this chapter. We're going to finally move away from the cliche "world meeting" intro and dig deeper in the plot~!
> 
> Next chapter soon? I don't know ._.


	4. The Stepping Stone of the Blackbird

**_"Hetalia,"_  **German being translated into Universal Language

 _"Hetalia,"_  thoughts (when explicitly said so)/ flashback

"Hetalia," Normal speech

* * *

 

Italy returned from the airport dead tired (eight hours of his life he never wants to relive—the shifting, odors, proximity, earliness, restlessness being something he should be used to but never quite will). Italy literally crawled to his kitchen, walking taking too much effort, for some real food and immediately went to bed straight afterward.

Eating had been lonely. Italy just eating his salad because of necessity and not out of any real enjoyment. (Anything was better than airport food he reasoned when he tasted the cold ranch at his large table.)

He hadn't brushed his teeth in the morning before leaving—him being too busy zipping up his pants in record time, hailing too expensive taxis, flirting with ladies, and the general lethargicness and panic that came with traveling.

_"Ciao~ You look lonely and I can't let a beautiful woman such as yourself be lonely. I'm Feliciano Vargas. And you are~?"_

_"Ellie Lechmann. You're quite the charmer, huh?"_

Talking to that flight attendant had been fun for Italy. She was easy on the eyes and didn't seem to mind that he talked a lot or didn't make much sense. His passenger buddy did not want to talk, the balding old man (whose face resembled a pug, but not quite as cute Italy decided when looking at the saggy skin) being more interested in scowling and staring at the Sky High magazine than talking to him.

The flight attendant had been nice and many people from the back of the plane joined in on the conversation despite the roaring engines and unfamiliarity.

In all, the trip hadn't been too bad. There was some drama at the security line, but Italy appeased the raging woman with some flirting and playfulness with her baby. (The baby was the highlight of his trip—it was just so cute!)

After the long airport trip, his chauffeur drove him to his house (it was always a shock getting used to America's smooth roads then coming back) and here he is now.

Back to his home. Back to his aging house by the small river. Back to...what did he have to return to?

Italy sighed into his cool bedsheets. He needed to take a shower.

The sound of constant streams of water was something Italy has only gotten used to this century, before the sound of water filling his ears being one to fear for heavily—the sound being the last before everything went dark and you were left soundlessly gasping to an uncaring force.

In his small, white bathtub, he could see the water pool around his feet and quickly drain away. Nothing to fear, yet sometimes he would curl his toes and expect warm sand to seep in between his toes. Only when his toes scraped against the slippery, ridged porcelain would he snap out of it and twist the knob to stop the water immediately with his pruned fingers.

Italy had to remind himself that he was thinking far too deep into things. But, Italy had always had a love/hate relationship with water. He needed it and had thrived from it for centuries, him even being on top of the economy once in the grand storybook of European History.

Yet, the water would always come back to mock him and put him back in his place. Just when he thinks he is above nature, finally accomplishing something, the water came back and washed away the memories. It was nice. (In a way.)

He could bury his heart in the water and never look back at it, the floodings being the key he didn't want.

So, as he had stared at the running faucet, his hands cupped still under the gushing water, he had laughed in marvel at the water being so controlled. All it took was just a turn of the shiny, metal knob and it would cease to pour. That easy.

It shouldn't be that easy. Water was too free. Too spirited and wild.

"I must be reaaally tired to be thinking like Greece. Is it normal to always think like this? Veh~ I need to go get out more... Veh~ Sleep. Oh, glorious sleep..." Italy thought while messily rubbing his damp hair with a white towel. The towel was thrown on the floor soon after and the body towel hanging on his pelvis was discarded as well right after. Italy felt a rush of familiar coolness envelop his body. The chilly night doing nothing to make his skin not stand up in goosebumps.

With clean teeth and a clean body, Italy crash landed on the soft mattress. His foot hung off the bed and the edge of the bed was poking his bony knees, but he felt his eyes droop heavier and heavier. His body felt clean, yet his mind burned with compulsive, dirty thoughts. Muddy, hazy thoughts that even the water couldn't wash away. Italy just was one big oxymoron...

And so, Italy slept. He didn't bother with a blanket, his breathing heavy and rhythmic by the time coldness seeped to his skin.

* * *

 

Italy woke up again to the bright sun of late afternoon. Traveling always took a lot out of him, but he was glad to at least wake up groggy eyed to his own ceiling rather than a nice hotel in New York, New York.

He did mundane things that day. Watered his plants, chucked envelopes into the trash bin, practiced his guitar, cleaned up a bit, cooked, drew, went to town for groceries while petting cute cats on the way, and called back a couple girls to cancel "dates."

He wasn't avoiding the journal on his kitchen table. Of course not. He was simply a busy man. The garage is looking a bit cramped after all and he simply must wash his antique car.

There were things to do, places to be, people to talk to, journals to not read.

But even then, when the sun had set once more—when he waved goodbye to the happy families closing shops—he still felt a heavy knot in his throat.

Things were changing and he was refusing to concede.

He wasn't stubborn, it was just wrong. He couldn't fight back his personality or change it (even if it had been different centuries ago)—it was just who he was. What he had been molded to. His fears, his loves, they weren't his.

But Italy knew that he couldn't avoid the journal forever. The journal wasn't going to go away just because he shut his eyes and couldn't see it anymore. If he could do it in a U.N. building, then he should be able to do it in his home. Right? Surely, his people could at least grant him the strength to not just stare at the chronicle in the vain hope that it would solve itself.

He was mocking himself. Placing the journal in such a blatant and open position. He knew that he passed the book almost every hour (he saw it in his peripheral vision when leaving to the sunny outside) and he simply knew that he was indirectly running away again.

It was a gnawing feeling—feeling that self-inflicted guilt worsens with every outing and bite—so he decided to at least try and paint a brave face on the cowardice canvas he calls himself.

So, the second day back from America, (right after Mass of course) he had manned up and actually acknowledged the book's existence. All that staring must have done him some good as the book looked normal to him now. Not frightening and, well, boring.

It was after lunch—his belly feeling gross and slushy, despite having such delicious self-made food—when he decided to read another entry. It was never specified if he could read ahead but he was going to anyways. His country, his rules.

He bit his tongue as he settled into his chair and sipped some juice from a straw. He would drink wine, but getting intoxicated was not his priority. Though, it didn't sound like a bad idea now...

"This is just like a storybook. These words aren't scary. Veh, these words are entertaining. Like a mystery show. I'll be the cool detective! Just don't look too deep into things and don't feel so much and I should be fine. Yeah!" Italy puffed out his cheeks at this thought process and felt himself become a bit soothed.

(No he didn't.)

He flipped through the book slowly, like the laggard he is, and stopped when he saw the correct entry.

**_"18.January 1871_ **

**_Even though I knew this would come, I cannot believe it. I am no longer writing as a fragile, unsure being, but a certified nation. I am now part of The Germanic Empire and I marvel at how powerful it sounds. It shouldn't feel this right to say it, but I feel my people's content. Their cries to become something were finally answered and manifested in me."_ **

1871\. The same year Italy had unified with his lazy older brother.

**_"Reading back on my last entry, I feel shame. I was acting like a baby and I look at it now with regret. Things could have been worse. Brother could have literally killed me to keep his land thriving and prospering. It wasn't uncommon, Brother made sure of telling me that, and it would have been so easy._ **

**_But he didn't. He kept me alive for some reason I still can't fathom and raised me. Took the filthy me and saw something. This scrawny child with fox teeth engraved into their forearm and blood stain on their already red cheeks. Brother can be a complete, total bastard, but it is not to say that he does not have a heart._ **

**_(Sometimes.)_ **

**_Fighting off the other countries had been intimidating._ **

**_I was not strong. Or big. Or had any experience other than basic defense. Denmark, I already hate him, came by and thought he could push me around. I may be smaller than him, but I wasn't going to simply let him walk all over me just because he had a large weapon and a cocky smirk._ **

**_Honestly, is a giant ax practical in any way other than striving for attention?_ **

**_...Although he did not hurt me too badly, (I won the battle) that did not mean his words did not leave an impact on me. What he had said was true._ **

**_I was a nobody. A lonely boy clinging onto something powerful and hoping that it will rub off on him. A weak nation too confused and brainwashed to know what it really wanted._ **

**_I was made to be taken over and destroyed. Over and over again until someone finally—"_ **

Italy had to shove the book away for a couple seconds. He took a sip of his juice—the brightly colored straw making slurping noises already—and returned back to the brick of text.

**_"—takes pity and tries to make the desperate nation into something it is not. Which is supposedly me._ **

**_'How do you know that Prussia isn't just using you? How can you be so easily trusting of him?' Denmark had asked while twirling his ax absentmindedly behind his back like the show off he was._ **

**_I at the time tried to tell myself that wasn't the case, but with the sudden neglect and harsh training, the words had seemed plausible. He had seen this pause in doubt and jumped on it like a leech._ **

**_'You can't possibly believe that Prussia is doing this on his own free will. That he cares about you? You're nothing to him. Just another piece of land for his empire. Once he sees how weak and useless you are, I guarantee that he won't think twice about leaving you.'"_ **

Italy flipped the second page carefully, the page being a victim of America's little tantrum. It was flimsy and fully torn out but Italy was too invested in the words to fully pay attention.

**_"Brother wasn't like that. I had known it back then, but with so much pent up confusion and pride, it was difficult to not be swayed by an older and wiser nation._ **

**_'I don't believe you. You're lying. Brother isn't like that.'_ **

**_Denmark had thrown his head back and laughed. It only fueled my rage, so I suppose it was a joke on him._ **

**_'This is rich! He even makes you think he is your brother. Let me guess, he also told you that he will always protect you. Well, where is he now? The all mighty Big Brother Prussia?' That smirk looked much better with blood. I would know._ **

**_'Doing better things than having to deal with someone who smells like shit and expired milk.' I will admit. I was a bit sassy."_ **

Italy threw his head back and laughed. The wonderful sound absorbed into the thick, brick wall.

He laughed until tears came out of his eyes and he wished he had been there to see this go down.

If it was hilarious on paper, he couldn't imagine how funny it would have been in person! He knew the face Denmark made when offended. It was hilarious, no doubt his face being funnier since it was a small, pubescent Germany he was going up against.

**_"His joking mood had vanished and he growled at me like some kind of wild dog. I knew that he couldn't be fully human. Dogs are nice but to want to be them was a bit much..._ **

**_'So easily manipulated. Take it from an actual nation, kid. I know your so called brother means the world to you now, but just wait until his true colors show. Because you want to know something?'_ **

**_I was curious. I didn't have much choice either since he continued running his fat mouth anyway._ **

**_'You aren't special. You aren't the only person to call Prussia, Big Brother. The person before you is long dead. But you know what's funny?'_ **

**_No one had been laughing._ **

**_'He didn't even cry at their death. Didn't even blink an eye as their body was brutally murdered by the hands of his so called friend. Blood was everywhere, his real flesh and blood was being killed in front of his eyes and he just walked away. Just like that. Didn't give a single fuck that he had lost his precious brother.'_ **

**_'W-Why are you telling me this? What do you have to gain from this?'_ **

**_'Don't you get it? You're not special. Not fucking unique! Prussia will leave you just as he did before. He won't cry at your death and you will mean nothing to him. He will probably smile when he—'_ **

**_I couldn't stand hearing what he had to say. It was too much. We fought and I did not come out unscathed. I was pleased that Denmark had taken a good blow as well, though. I need to work on my right hook._ **

**_I was too fueled by hate and jealousy to think clearly._ **

**_I could have walked away. Told him to leave and try to negotiate something, but I don't really know how to negotiate. It all seems useless to me._ **

**_Why bother with flowery words when you can literally show them your power? Actions speak louder than words. At least, that's what Brother had told me._ **

**_Although this event happened quite some time ago, back in 1864 if I recall correctly, his words are still engraved in my head. This occurred before my last entry, and I think that little war I had Denmark might have been a reason Brother pushed me so hard. He didn't want—couldn't have a weak nation as an ally. If it was ordered from his boss, or from his own will, I don't know_ **

**_I suppose I took it too personally. I took his words to heart and now they are stuck there. I wish they could just leave._ **

**_There were a couple of other nations that wanted to take me over, but I defeated them so I don't care to talk about them._ **

**_I am still having a difficult time adjusting to so much royalty. The concept of having an official boss is frightening. Sure, I was under Brother's care before, but it was a mutual understanding of boundaries and growth._ **

**_With all these duchesses and royal families, I am sure I am going to offend them in some way. I do not want to, but I can come across as...blunt or unapproachable. I can't be that bad right?"_ **

Italy looked at the page sympathetically. He knew the pain of royalty and pompous humans all too well—don't get him started on Vatican City. 

Italy has offended his superiors so many times that it was really a game to him now. They were going to either die, get removed, or commit suicide in the end, so it didn't matter what fat, frowning person sat on the throne. (Though, he did have many superiors that he genuinely liked and cried when they passed away, their children being unfair victims of longing gazes.)

Plus, Italy didn't think Germany was a bad person. Even England didn't think so, and he hates everyone!

Germany was just so young...and it was times like this that Italy has to remember that Germany was barely two centuries old. Germany...with his gelled back hair and bulging muscles, was really still just a brat.

A brat that had caused more blood, more suffering, and agony than any other nation in the world.

That brat had succeeded in making all of Europe dead broke— inside and out—and was still able to transform from the most hated nation in the world to the most dependable and trusted within the same century.

Italy couldn't do that—not in a million years. Italy took another sip of his drink—there was nothing left to sip really—and continued reading before he could go philosophical and be "a depressing piece of shit." Romano's words, not his.

**_"That is not my main concern for now, though._ **

**_What I'm more concerned about is how I'm going to make this empire not fall apart. With so many people (41 million to be exact) and such rapid advancements, I wonder if I will be able to keep up. I'm just so inexperienced._ **

**_From what Brother says, I might just be able to beat Britain in terms of industry in a couple more years. More railroads are being added and things are changing. Rapidly._ **

**_I feel myself getting more intelligent as well. Those humans. No. My people are starting to build more universities and I have to admire how cunning they are._ **

**_I'm full of life and hope. It's an odd feeling. I've never felt this liberated and, well, eager._ **

**_I think Brother knew this. He sensed I would not want to be under his control for much longer and foresaw that I would start to become more hostile towards him._ **

_**I did, for a time, become more hostile towards him. I was angry at him for not caring, angry at myself for caring, and angry because my people were making me angry. I was not a pleasant person to be around at that time.** _

**_Now, I can only say that I am most grateful. For everything. The training, the lessons— academic and morally. All of it. Even if I haven't seen him in months._ **

**_Although things are great right now, I can't help but feel like something bad is going to occur soon. Something foreboding and large. I don't want to put a damper on the cheery feelings, but I sense an unrest within the continent. The thirst for power is not rare, but I cannot help but worry. I can't pinpoint it exactly, but I feel like I mustn't let myself become accustomed to my growing riches._ **

**_Because although I say that I wasn't affected by Denmark's words, his voice still echoes through my mind. Taunts me when I close my eyes and makes me feel small and insecure—as if I were just a small child again hiding under Brother's blankets again._ **

**_If that foreboding time comes, if that dark and malicious presence make itself known to be true, will Brother care? Will he cry?_ **

**_The sad thing is, I still don't know."_ **

* * *

 

_Don't you know Germany that it was Prussia who followed you to the ends of the Earth and was the one to burn instead?_

* * *

 

Italy flipped the sixth page and saw a new date. He had reached the end of the entry. Germany had somehow been able to fit all those words perfectly into five pages. The last word ending exactly where the thin, faded line did as well.

"...Veh~ That was different," Italy said to himself, the book on his lap now. He was distracted by a bluebird outside of his large window for a moment. He blinked back to focus and got up from his seat. He stretched, taking his glass and walking towards his kitchen.

He set the book on the wooden table beside his chair and grabbed the thin glass now empty. He placed the glass in the empty sink and looked out his window in thought.

What should he do now? He could read the entire journal if he wanted to, but he didn't feel like crying himself to sleep.

He could ignore it and wait until another world meeting and just shove the responsibility to another nation, like say, America. But that didn't leave a good taste in his mouth either. He had already tried and failed as well.

"What a lovely tree," Italy thought. He would have to cut that tree soon. It was getting too large.

Italy looked away and walked back to his large living room. He sat back down and contemplated on what to do next.

Another entry has been read. He wasn't any closer than before. Him being just as clueless as before. Italy let out a sad veh~

Did he really think that just by reading a couple entries the answer would appear right in front of him? As if Germany would immediately tell him where he is, why he left, and why he barely smiles at him anymore. Just because he was the one feeling bad?

This wasn't a fairy tale—he desperately wished it was, but the shooting stars seem to always lie and fade before he could grasp—and it was time to face the reality.

He was going to have to work for this. With no Germany to hold his hand and tell him that, he did his best.

Because his best wasn't good enough anymore.

It wasn't enough and that left Italy having to swallow deeply.

"I'm not good enough right now. This, right now, what is happening, is accomplishing nothing. Me crying and frowning and ignoring isn't doing anything. I need to do something!"

Italy felt a surge of eagerness run through him. Just as Germany had felt one hundred and twenty-one years ago. He rarely ever felt like doing anything these days, handling country affairs was bothersome enough, but he felt like he had something to strive for. Something that mattered in his personal life.

He knew this before—a half-awake realization—but it wasn't until now, that he fully understood.

It was...exciting. It made Italy feel a pleasant buzz—one that years of various alcohols could never recreate.

 _"If I were Germany, where would I go? What would I do? What is the first thing I would worry about and get taken care of?"_  Italy thought, scrunching up his face in deep concentration.

_"..."_

_"..."_

_"...This is hard, veh~"_ Italy thought while relaxing his face.

_"Veh~ okay. Think! Germany probably told Prussia that he was going to leave. Probably, maybe, there's a good chance. Germany itself seems to be doing fine, so obviously Ludwig is still alive."_

This brought a smile to Italy's face.

"Germany likes dogs. Like, really likes dogs. So maybe he went to a dog park...?" Italy shook his head immediately at that thought.

_"No, that's not it. Veh, okay, what would he do if he were trying to escape? He would...cover up his tracks...and, and not tell anyone! He would do shady business and probably wear a disguise."_

Italy stopped for a second. A disguise! He totally forgot to consider that! How are they supposed to find him amongst the million of other blonds?!

WAS HE EVEN BLONDE ANYMORE?!

Italy took a deep breath to calm himself. He gave a shaky smile and tried to look on the positives. Panicking now would do him no good, so he just continued to hypothesize.

"Veh~ veh~ don't panic. He's probably still blonde and mean looking, and really into baking and singing like a girl. He's still Germany and I bet I can still sense his awkwardness. Yeah! Yeah...so let me think."

 _"Germany would probably worry about his country first. Make sure that someone is running it and taking care of things."_  Italy paused.

_"Wait, his government is also clueless about where he is. If that's true, then that means there isn't someone 'running' the show. WAIT."_

_"From what Mexico said, that the other countries' governments have only been pressuring them to start looking for Germany a couple weeks ago instead of months ago. Then that must mean that Germany's bosses already knew of his absence and had someone doing the official stuff!"_

Italy felt proud. He was doing this all by himself and getting somewhere!

_"Veh~! Now who would Germany trust enough to run his government...Prussia. It has to be Prussia. No doubt. Germany trusts him a lot and it was at this meeting that he showed himself."_

Italy got up and quickly shuffled into his personal office.

It was a mess with thick paper toppling over each other— the mahogany desk barely being able to be seen with the myriad of books and confidential folders. The blinds were closed, the orange sun barely being able to shine through the thick pieces of plastic, and the leather seat was turned away from the large desk.

He turned on a lamp and quickly scattered through his horrid mess of papers to find his personal calendar. After shuffling a bit, he pulled out the paper calendar and skimmed quickly through his scratchy writing.

He flipped back a couple months. He ignored the bold circles and doodles of May and April until he found a chicken scratched March.

There it was. March twenty-first. The last time he had seen Germany. In blotchy red ink, with a dried up pen he had thrown out days later, was scrawled the date he was supposed to "discuss" the plans of the Earth Summit.

He had seen Germany, he was snappy that day from what Italy had remembered, and they talked about the preparations. Well, Germany did. Italy had kept trying to go out and do anything other than sit down and talk stuffily.

Italy tried to remember any key things Germany had said that day.

All he could remember was: pay attention, we can't eat right now, I don't know if seals have penises, I don't know if lady bugs pee either, you just went to the bathroom, this is important, this is important, this is important—not important enough for Italy to remember.

Italy let out a sad sigh. He wished he would have listened to Germany and paid attention. Because now he's looking at his calendar for answers that won't appear.

Italy did the math in his head. It was now the nineteenth, meaning, that it has been almost exactly four months since Italy had last seen Germany. According to the other nations, this was around the same time slot.

Germany disappeared around late March, early April. What could have been done in that time? He has to be living somewhere. But where is the question. Specifically, what country.

Maybe an island? A small, uninhabited island? Italy doubted Germany could muster the grime and primal ways of living. He likes silence, not solitude.

Italy flipped to April. A meeting had been scheduled on the eleventh, but a flash flood had prevented him from going. He had then rescheduled for the twentieth but Germany wouldn't pick up on the fifteenth—the brazen beeping telling him coldly that the number was unavailable.

Germany had been gone by then so, Italy knew that the time slot of disappearance was between March twenty-second and April fifteenth. Italy's boss had started bothering him on July second, exactly two weeks before the world meeting with Prussia, so that meant it had been almost five weeks since the Rio Summit. That taking place from the third to the fourteenth.

All the dates were starting to confuse Italy so he shut his calendar and shoved it back in his drawer not caring that it crumbled and twisted in sharp angles—creasing in a way that would never go away.

Italy paced back in forth in his living room once he had strode quickly out of his office. The sun was setting once again—the blue bird gone and away—and the room was becoming darker.

"Veh~ This would be so much easier if I knew what Germany was thinking. What he was feeling..."

Italy looked at the journal and thought about what he should do with it.

A dark thought ran through Italy.

Why is he bothering with all these minuscule and unimportant entries? They weren't bringing him closer to finding the truth.

The truth would lie in the very last entry...he could just check the last entry date, read that, then do some more math with the dates and find him! He could read what he was feeling, resolve that internal issue when he finds him and carry on with life happily. With Germany.

It would be faster, easier, and as America would say, "Work smarter, not harder."

There was nothing stopping him from doing so...There was no yelling England, or grinning America, or red-faced boss, or frowning Romano, or anyone in the beige colored room to tell him otherwise. It was just him, a lonely man, and the thoughts of an even lonelier man.

He picked up the journal in his pale hands and debated.

What if the very last entry was written almost one-hundred years ago? What if every entry after the one he had just read were just angsty retellings of everyday life? Complaining about things that would hold no real value in the greater scheme of things?

What if it was all just a waste of time.

Italy had to cancel that thought process. Germany wasn't like that.

Germany didn't have the time for that kind of thing, and it just wasn't how he resolved things. He would much rather break his punching bag and go for a run with his dogs than sit down and write down his woes like an old maid. In Italy's mind, all he could picture was Germany doing a comical amount of pushups then baking a bright, pink cake before bed. Nowhere in that vision did he see Germany writing. Well, writing something personal.

" _What about that little thingy Germany used to carry around during World War II? That book he carried religiously for a solid five months around me? What happened to that? Could that have been this? No...it's too small to be this one, but looking back at it, Germany was really into writing in that. He was always writing something. He would never let me see, but he suddenly stopped bringing it with him. Weird since he would write in it every day..."_  Italy thought only remembering Germany's concentrated face and a blurry image of another small book.

What had it been called? An observation journal? That was what Germany had said right?

Italy perked up. If Germany could write something for months, never missing a day, then this journal had to be consistently updated! Sure, fifty years was a big jump, but the logs were not abandoned.

The possibility of the last entry not being recent still ran high, though. Germany was a busy man and if not deemed important enough by him, he will completely forget and ignore something he doesn't want to face - or does not care to. A personal journal was something Italy deemed important but for Germany to just disappear...

It seems Italy doesn't really know Germany either.

This made Italy pause and look at the journal more intensely. He flipped it over, the book still just as tightly clasped in his clammy hands, and looked at the pages. Italy could see that there were still a good amount of new pages—the paper not yet being ruined by the weight of the ink or the dirt of the side of a hand. They weren't pristine white, that being just from age, but they were sharp and stiff.

Could it be possible that Germany has another journal? Could it be possible that he threw this one out and wrote in a new one?

Did Prussia give him this old, faulty book on purpose? It is not something Prussia is above of - he is at core a military strategist.

No. No. Italy didn't want to believe that. Prussia cares, and, and, he seemed just as heartbroken as any older brother would be. He looked just like someone needing help and asking for genuine aid.

 _Did he, though?_ He had a smile on his face. No, he was frowning. No, he wasn't making an expression at all. Or was he just not paying attention? Prussia was wide-eyed, yes, very expressive and—no, that isn't right either!

Prussia was blank faced and tone...hopeful? Most definitely not. He was just as blank as his voice. Right? He can't remember...

Italy gulped down to calm down his shaking hands.

He had to have faith that this journal was the one—the one that would lead him to Ludwig. He had to have faith—the cold cross in his fingers was not soothing his warm-blooded fear, sadly— and hope that it was the right one, the right thing to do.

He should take a peek, though...just to make sure that the journal does end on a semi-recent date...

He flipped it heavily to one side and skimmed through the black inked words. He stopped when he saw a peek of the last entry date.

**" _28.December 198—"_**

He didn't dare to read any further.

* * *

Italy sat in his living room. The old clock already ringing that another hour has passed.

He had signed papers, called back his boss, organized folders in alphabetical order, watered his wilting plants, and had dipped his feet in the water to admire the darkening sky.

He had done everything he was supposed to. (He wanted his schedule to be clear for the next couple days, so he put extra effort to ignore the hand cramps and aching lower back to get the miscellaneous and tedious tasks of being a country done.)

His right leg couldn't stop shaking and vibrating, him being in dire need to do something, anything, and his pudgy cat had stopped nudging him for food when he had mechanically filled its bowl with food (his mind solely focused on one task, but being focused on nothing at the same time) about half an hour ago.

Now he was just looking at his ornate rug and dusty coffee table in thought. The house was silent, the washing machine in the background humming hypnotically, the small fan in the kitchen spinning to nothingness, and the sound of his foot tapping on the wooden floor to occupy the still house.

"...What were you thinking Germany? What is he thinking, does he feel like this too, just as—that's it...what he's thinking—I need to go to Germany's house! I'm sure to find something there!" Italy suddenly thought, breaking his usual deadline of thinking. He felt his brain reel with activity once again, thoughts coming in and out faster than he could acknowledge. He felt his eyes start to focus on the detail in the room and he blinked. He shook his head in excitement, his mouth stretching into a large smile.

"Why didn't I think of it before!" Italy said while jumping out of his chair. He rushed to the kitchen and grabbed his car keys out of an old ceramic bowl—the bowl shaking unevenly and making pitched clicks against the granite from the sudden force.

He shoved his arms through a random jacket by the door and shut the lights off habitually. He slammed the door behind him and fast-walked to his car muttering to himself.

"Prussia will be there, but he never said I couldn't visit. I could question him—he likes me, so it shouldn't be that hard. I could look and see if there's anything useful, like, like, I don't know. Veh~ how exciting!"

Italy jammed the key into the lock on his car door and got in. He didn't check his mirrors, barely noticed himself clicking his seatbelt, and didn't wait for the car to warm up. He twisted the car keys harshly into the ignition and smiled giddily at the sudden roar of the engine.

He clutched the stick shift and jerked it to make the car go into reverse. The small car's tires screeched as he pulled out of his driveway and drove away, his yellow headlights being the only light to contrast the pitch-black night.

It was time to visit Germany's house.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I come back from the dead with a crappy chapter. I'm sorry dudes, I tried to make it work last year, but my English teacher keeps on making really sassy and sarcastic comments on everything I turn in, like "Really? This is all you could come up with?" on my stuff and then adds a nice 70 to my grade. My confidence in writing has really plummeted from her even though she's supposed to be making me "better". I know it's her job, yes, but I feel like her "help" has been doing the exact opposite because I'm starting to really hate my own writing. I wonder why I'm no good at it when other people are just fine. I was never confident in it before, so hooray. That's wonderful. 
> 
> Sorry to spill out my crap on you guys, but I thought you should have known as to why I didn't post. I had (still have) some internal problems to settle out, and well. I guess I'm just too sensitive .-. 
> 
> I'v been away for so long and I have so many chapters ready to go, might as well just post them. I don't want to wait longer and say, "I will post them tomorrow" and then turn into another half year of not doing anything. I'm only going to get colder feet as the time goes by, so here we are with another chapter! Not a very exciting or good chapter, but a new one. 
> 
> The next one should come out pretty soon, but if it doesn't, it's just me being a pussy again and dealing with le emotions. And if it gets really bad, I might just discontinue the fic altogether. I don't want to get at that point (I really don't) but mental health comes first, dudes.
> 
> Other than that, if you did enjoy, I'm glad! I can only thank you for taking your time to read this far, so even if you didn't like it, thank you for reading nonetheless :)


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